


Fragile Magic

by dbw



Category: CSI: Las Vegas, The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Light My Fire Award Winner, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 103,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dbw/pseuds/dbw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Sentinel / CSI crossover and can be considered an AU for both series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In order for the timing to work, I've shifted the timeline for The Sentinel ahead three years to fit into the timeline of CSI. It makes more sense to shift The Sentinel than CSI, because CSI relies heavily on science and the latest technology.
> 
> Where the story fits within the framework of the two shows:
> 
> Fragile Magic takes place in The Sentinel universe some time after the episode _Murder 101_ and in the CSI universe after the episode _Stalker_, but before the episode _Anatomy of a Lye_.
> 
> Fragile Magic was originally published on the net on 09-May-2004. It was nominated in the _2004 Light My Fire_ awards (The Sentinel) for best Slash Crossover, and won the award in 2009.

__

_Jim glided through an unfamiliar dreamscape, trapped in a hallway that elongated and warped oddly around him. Dream or nightmare, what was the difference? At least it wasn't one of those damned blue sentinel vision-dreams. Those were always filled with meaningful metaphors and life or death puzzles that were more frustrating than helpful. Dreams and nightmares held little to worry him in comparison._

_What was this place? Why was he here? Nothing was familiar. Weren't dreams supposed to be about familiar places or at least familiar feelings? The only thing that felt familiar was his growing fear, like the fear he felt every time Sandburg was in danger._

_Jim floated past several locked rooms and peered through the small portholes in the doors. Inside each room was a single occupant, generally stretched out on a cot, unmoving. Their physical condition bothered him. Were they dead or alive? He couldn't tell by sight alone and his other senses weren't working. He tried to enhance his hearing to hear their heartbeats, but he couldn't hear anything at all, not even his own footsteps._

_How long he wandered, he couldn't say. Sometimes the dreamscape faded in and out, sometimes his surroundings were in such sharp relief that he would swear it was all real. He was searching for something--something important--though he wasn't sure just what. The band of fear that surrounded his chest grew tighter and more constricting with each passing moment, though he did his best to ignore it. After all, it was only a dream. Right?_

_His sense of hearing suddenly kicked in with a vengeance and his heart skipped a beat as he heard screams coming from somewhere ahead of him. He knew that voice better than he knew his own, even screaming in agony. Sandburg. Someone was torturing that gentle soul and, dream or not, there was no way in hell he would allow that to continue._

_He ran toward the source of the screams, cursing under his breath as the corridor stretched and lengthened before him. He ran harder, panting and sweating, never coming nearer his destination. Finally, he stopped and bent over, hands on his knees as he gulped air into his lungs. As simple as that, his surroundings snapped into place around him and he stood in front of his goal--a closed door similar to all the others he'd passed._

_Sandburg's screams came from the other side of the door, tapering off into low moans that were no less heart wrenching. Jim approached cautiously and peered through the porthole._

_Sandburg lay strapped to a metal gurney. He was naked from the waist up, his long brown hair was lank and stringy, clinging to his face and neck. His torso jerked and spasmed, as if being jabbed by a cattle prod; each jerk accompanied by short panting breaths and moans. Jim couldn't tell if he was conscious; his eyes were closed and each movement seemed involuntary._

_Motion from the far corner of the room caught Jim's eye. A man dressed in a white lab coat approached, an hypodermic needle clutched in his right hand. His face was turned away and all Jim could see was the back of his white coat and the filled syringe._

_Jim yelled and pounded on the door, but all sound cut out, silencing his attempts to draw the man's attention away from Sandburg. The man reached out with his left hand and lightly stroked Sandburg's bare arm, the gesture at once oddly gentle and highly disturbing. As the needle approached Sandburg's arm, Jim's desperation increased. He beat on the door and clawed at it, but felt and heard nothing._

_He watched helplessly as the needle plunged into vulnerable flesh, loosing the contents of the syringe. Sandburg arched upward, his body straining against the restraints, his face contorted in pain. He suddenly went limp, the straps around his body the only things preventing him from tumbling to the floor. Jim yelled soundlessly, tears he couldn't feel sliding down his face. His hearing engaged just long enough to hear Sandburg's whispered plea._

_"Jim? Please..."_

 

 

 

Jim woke gasping for breath, shuddering as the nightmare continued to hold him in its grip. He sat up on the couch and wiped a trembling hand over his face, unsurprised to find the remnants of tears.

Automatically, he extended his senses, searching for Sandburg, only to immediately reel them in. Sandburg wasn't there. He wouldn't be home for another three long weeks. A familiar aching emptiness filled him and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting against an unexpected wave of longing.

Three sharp raps on the front door startled him; he hadn't sensed anyone approaching. On the other side of the door was perhaps the last person he'd expected to see.

"Naomi?" He glanced behind her and down the hallway to the elevator, but she was alone.

"Hi Jim." Naomi Sandburg tilted her head and smiled up at him. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Of course I am. Come in, come in."

She stepped inside and glanced around the loft, still smiling. "Is Blair home? I'm between flights and I only have a few minutes before I have to go back to the airport. But I couldn't be in Cascade, even this briefly, without seeing my Blair."

Jim frowned. "I thought Blair was with you. He flew down to New Mexico three weeks ago to meet you."

"He did meet me. We spent a wonderful time together at my friend's retreat outside of Taos. I know we were supposed to stay longer, but Blair decided to come home after a week. I drove him into Taos to get the bus to Albuquerque so he could catch a flight home."

His heart stuttered. Jim resolutely pushed the remnants of his nightmare into a back corner of his mind and gestured for Naomi to take a seat at the kitchen table.

"Blair never came home." He carefully folded his hands on the table to disguise the faint tremors that ran through them as a familiar fear twisted in his gut. "Naomi, I need you to tell me what happened, from the beginning."

"Well, Blair told you about my friend inviting us to stay at his retreat in Taos? It's a lovely place. The air is fresh and clean and Blair enjoyed hiking on the mountain trails. It's really too bad that you had to work. I think it would've done you good to get away from all of the negativity you encounter in your job. I'm sure Blair would've been glad to have had you with us."

"I appreciate the thought, Naomi, but it just didn't work out."

"Maybe next time, then."

"You were saying?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh. Yes. I picked Blair up at the airport in Albuquerque three weeks ago and we drove to Taos together. Shallanerry, my friend Howie's place, is up in the mountains. It's so beautiful, Jim."

He stopped her before she could rhapsodize about it again. "I thought the two of you were planning to stay six weeks? What happened?"

Naomi shrugged. "After a week, I could see that Blair was getting restless. He wouldn't say anything, but I can recognize the signs. I finally got him to admit that he'd only agreed to take the trip with me because he had some personal things he wanted to work out." The look she sent his way was shrewd.

Jim smiled politely and gestured for her to continue.

"Blair told me that he'd gotten clear on things and he felt like he needed to go home. I tried to talk him into staying, of course. He seemed so tired when he first arrived and he was looking so much better. But once he made up his mind, there was no stopping him. You know how he can be."

Jim nodded. Sandburg being stubborn was one of the constants of his universe. "Why'd he take a bus?"

"He didn't want me to drive back from Albuquerque all by myself. He said he could just as easily take the bus, so I didn't argue with him."

"Naomi," he said and paused. Why wasn't she concerned that Blair hadn't arrived home? "Blair hasn't been back since he left for Albuquerque three weeks ago. Did he say anything to you to make you think that he might not be coming straight back to Cascade?"

"No. When I dropped him at the bus station, I was under the impression that he was planning on going directly to the airport and getting a flight here." She smiled sunnily. "But that doesn't really mean anything. You weren't expecting him for another five weeks. I know my son, Jim. He probably decided to do a little traveling on his own for awhile. He used to do that all the time."

Though she didn't say it, the rest of the sentence hung in the air between them--before he met you--and Jim felt it's condemnation of their friendship, intended or not. It wasn't that Sandburg might have gone off on his own for a bit that worried him. What bothered him was that he couldn't be one hundred percent sure that she wasn't right. Before Alex had come between them, Jim had always felt so in sync with Sandburg that he thought he could predict, at least to a point, just what the kid might decide to do in any situation. Was the rift between them larger than he'd been prepared to admit?

"Jim?"

He jerked his head up and stared at her in surprise, so lost in his thoughts that he'd actually forgotten for a moment that she was there. "Sorry, Naomi. Guess I was wool-gathering."

Her voice was gentle. "You don't need to be concerned about Blair. He'll be back when he's ready. I know he wouldn't want to worry you and I know that he plans to come home. For whatever his reasons, he does consider this his home."

Jim swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and nodded. "All right then."

A car horn honked from the street below and Naomi rose to her feet. "That's probably my taxi. I'm sorry I can't stay longer, Jim, but I need to get back to the airport. I'm catching a flight to Toronto." She shrugged. "I guess I got a little restless, too. Some friends in Canada called and asked me to visit them for awhile."

He opened the door for her and she pulled him into a quick hug before heading for the elevator. As the doors slid shut, she smiled and waved. He couldn't help but return her smile. Naomi Sandburg was certainly one of a kind.

But, when he closed the door and turned to view his empty home once again, the smile slipped from his face. Naomi might be convinced that her son was just off traveling around and that he'd be home soon, but her story made Jim uneasy. Maybe it was the leftover residue from his nightmare, but that cold knot of fear was growing in his belly.

Where the hell was Sandburg?


	2. Chapter 2

His head felt thick and bloated, as if it had turned into a pumpkin when he wasn't paying attention. He tried to raise his hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, but his wrist was snared. He tugged on the other arm, but it wouldn't move either. What had him? He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids refused to obey. His legs twitched in an involuntary reaction to the adrenaline that surged through his veins, but that's all they did. His ankles were caught fast just like his wrists and there seemed to be something binding his thighs as well.

Blind and strapped down to something, an image came to mind of being laid out like a sacrifice offered up on an altar. Suddenly, pain such as he'd never imagined raced through his body. Spikes of icy fire burned him from the inside out, stabbing randomly over and over again at his arms, his legs, his gut, his head.

He screamed. At least, he must have done; he couldn't hear anything over the staccato pounding of his heart, but his throat felt raw. Unable to break the bonds on his body, all he could do was writhe and scream. Eventually his screams degenerated from pleading for relief to incoherent moans and sobs.

Sometime later, how long, an eternity or moments he wasn't sure, he returned to himself. His thoughts were broken as if they were physical things that could be shattered by the hammer of his pain, the shards flung to the far corners of the universe. It hurt to think, to reason, to analyze. It was much easier just to be; to exist in a void.

Sounds began to register. Not the sounds of his heartbeat or his own panting breaths, but sounds from outside himself. He tried again to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. He concentrated and his exhausted mind finally decoded the seemingly random noise into something meaningful--voices, at least two of them. His focus wasn't strong enough to understand the words, but he listened anyway. The relief that someone was there--that someone would rescue him--was palpable.

__

_"Which drug to you want me to give him this time?"_

_"None. The treatment isn't working on him. No point wasting the stuff. Save it for another subject."_

_"Mind if I ask why we're still giving him the treatment, then?"_

_"Because the fact that it's failed so completely with him is fascinating. Besides, it's doing something to him. I just haven't figured out what."_

_"It's your funeral. If it were me, I'd dump the body now and move on. The big bosses aren't going to be happy when they hear you're wasting this stuff on a failure."_

_"That's why they're not going to find out? Are they?"_

_"No, no, not from me. I'm just saying, it's your head, is all."_

 

He fought to move, make a noise, do something to attract their attention. It must have worked, because a hand touched his forehead. A wave of revulsion and loathing washed through him, leaving him gasping. His eyelids were pried open and cold liquid dropped into his eyes, burning and stinging. He blinked, trying unsuccessfully to clear his vision. A man's face, distorted as if viewed through a fisheye lens, floated above him. He flinched, trying to get away from the leering visage.

"Well, Rat, I see you're back with us. Ready for some more medicine? No?" The man chuckled, a harsh, ugly sound. "Guess it's your lucky day. It's too soon for another shot. But I'll be back later."

The man moved away, allowing him to breathe again. The voices resumed speaking and he recognized one as the voice of the man with the floating face. He closed his eyes in despair. No rescue, then.

Where was he? How long had he been here? He couldn't seem to remember anything but pain. Had he ever been anywhere else or was this his entire existence? That couldn't be right, but he couldn't conjure any images from his battered mind to counteract the insidious whispering voice that said this was all there was and all there would ever be for him. He wanted to weep. For all he knew, he was weeping.

For awhile he floated in blessed numbness. The absence of pain more than made up for the fact that he couldn't feel anything. His questions faded as his mind found a small measure of peace. Eventually, though, awareness returned and with awareness came more questions.

Who was he? Surely he must have a name. Or perhaps he was a creature who didn't deserve a name, didn't deserve the common decencies that were reserved for others. Had he committed some terrible crime and was this his punishment? What had he done to deserve this torment? Was there no one who cared about him?

At that thought, a face appeared in his mind's eye. A man's face, strong, stern, with eyes so blue that they should appear cold as a glacier. Instead, they warmed him deep in his soul. Who was he? A name drifted through his consciousness--_Jim_. Somehow, though he couldn't remember his own name or what he himself looked like, he could remember Jim. This was Jim and he was important.

If he could remember nothing else, then he would remember Jim. He clung desperately to that through all of the agony that followed. When he pleaded to be released, he called out to Jim. When he floated again in the void, detached from all feeling and thought, only Jim's face remained to anchor him by a slim thread to sanity.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim flipped through the sparse file for the fourth time. Three of Cascade's most prominent citizens had been murdered in the last two months and though the murders differed in method, the three had close ties to one another. Worse yet, they had all been friends of the Mayor, who had bypassed the Chief of Police and placed the investigation squarely in the lap of Simon Banks, Captain of the Major Crime unit of the Cascade Police Department. Without missing a beat, Simon had turned and dropped it in Jim's lap.

He'd worked methodically all morning to bring his notes into some semblance of order. The evidence suggested that this was most probably a triple homicide and every facet of the case would be under intense scrutiny. He refused to run the risk that his sentinel senses would be revealed because he'd been sloppy about explaining, in detail, exactly how he'd found his evidence.

Coming up with plausible explanations for Jim's sentinel abilities was one of Sandburg's strong points. The fact that Sandburg wasn't around now to provide those explanations, along with Jim's growing fear that wherever he was, he was in trouble, all contributed to one massive headache.

"Ellison!"

Jim started at the bellow in his ear and sent his coffee mug skittering across his desk. He glared up at Simon. "What?"

Simon narrowed his eyes, but the volume of his voice was lower when he answered. "I've been calling your name for the last few minutes, Jim." He glanced around and dropped his voice further. "I thought maybe you were in one of those zone things."

"No. I was just concentrating and didn't hear you."

"Come on into my office, Jim. You look like you could use a cup of good coffee."

Simon closed his door and waved him into the chair in front of his desk. He poured them both mugs of coffee and leaned back against his desk as he sipped the dark brew. "So, you want to tell me what that was all about out there?"

Jim frowned. "I was just trying to get my thoughts together on the case. Guess I was just thinking too hard."

"Uh-huh. Want to try again? You look like you didn't get any sleep last night, Jim. Did something happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, my friend, that you look like you haven't slept in the last twenty-four hours. I know this case is important, but I didn't think that it was keeping you up at night. What gives, Jim?"

"Naomi dropped by last night."

"Naomi?" Simon frowned. "But I thought she and Sandburg were in New Mexico at some new age retreat or something. Did Sandburg decide to come home early?"

"He wasn't with her. Simon, I think he might be in some kind of trouble."

"Whoa. Hold on. Start from the beginning." He circled his desk to sit in his chair.

Jim related the conversation he'd had with Naomi the previous night. As he told the story, the fear, the feeling that Sandburg was in trouble, grew stronger. He came to the end and waited for Simon to agree with him.

Simon reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a cigar and rolled it between his fingers. He was quiet for a long time and seemed to be avoiding Jim's gaze.

"Jim," he said and hesitated. He was still staring at his cigar when he continued. "Maybe Naomi's right and Sandburg is just taking some time to travel. He knows you're not expecting him for a few weeks. Maybe he just wants to be out on his own for awhile."

"I don't buy it. He told Naomi he was ready to come home. He wouldn't have said that if he hadn't meant it."

Simon sighed and finally met his gaze. "Look, all I'm saying is that maybe this is just something that the kid needs to do. It's been a rough few months for him." He dropped the cigar on his desk and folded his hands. "We've all seen it. Things were strained between the two of you before Barnes ever showed up. And then everything went crazy. Add in the fountain, the trip to Sierra Verde, then this crap with Ventriss and, well, it stands to reason that he might want to get away for a bit."

Jim's voice was rough. "I thought we were getting past it all, you know? I'm not sure what the hell was going on with him about Ventriss, but I really thought we were starting to work things out."

"No offense, Jim, because God knows I let Sandburg down myself, but did the two of you ever manage to discuss what was happening with him during the Ventriss case? 'Cause I have to tell you that what I saw wasn't good. I've never seen Sandburg so unsure of himself and so angry."

"No. We never really sat down and talked about it. Hell, we never talked about any of it. Not about Barnes, not about the fountain and especially not about what happened in Sierra Verde." He shook his head. "I just couldn't, Simon. I couldn't make myself go there and I...I brushed him off every time he made the attempt. I guess he finally just gave up trying."

"Damn, Jim. I don't believe you. No wonder he's been walking around here lately like he either has a chip on his shoulder, or like he's lost his best friend. I'd say he's been wondering if that's not true."

"I've screwed up, Simon. I &lt;i&gt;know&lt;/i&gt; that. But that still doesn't mean that I'm wrong about Sandburg being in trouble now."

"Don't you think you're letting your guilt get away from you? Did Naomi seem at all concerned?"

"No, but--"

"Ah." Simon held up a hand. "I know Naomi can come across as something of a flake, but beneath it all I get the feeling that she really cares about her son. Don't you think that if there was the slightest hint that something really wasn't right that she'd be all over it?"

"Well..." He let his voice trail off. Simon's arguments were logical--just as logical as Naomi's had sounded.

"What's really behind this feeling of yours? Did something else happen that you haven't told me about?"

He took a deep breath and rubbed his palms on his slacks. "Just before Naomi showed up, I, well, I had a nightmare. About Sandburg."

"A nightmare? Not one of those crazy sentinel visions of yours?"

"No. At least, it didn't feel like that. It was so real. Sandburg was strapped down to a table or a gurney or something and he was being given an injection. It hurt him. It wasn't like he was in the hospital because he'd been in an accident. This was...it was more like he was being tortured. I'm telling you, Simon. Sandburg's in trouble."

"Let me get this straight. You wake up from a nightmare about Sandburg being drugged and tortured. Then Naomi shows up and tells you that he left New Mexico two weeks ago. And since you haven't heard from him, you decide that on the basis of that one nightmare that he's in trouble. Did I get that right?"

"Yes," he whispered. Damn. When Simon put it that way, it sounded ridiculous. "Maybe I'm letting the stress of the last few weeks get to me."

"I'd say so." Simon leaned forward, forearms on his desk and a serious expression on his face. "Look, Jim, it's been a tough time for all of us. But Sandburg and you, well, I can't even imagine going through what the two of you went through and not feeling out of whack. I'll bet the kid shows up in the next week or so with some story about how he went off to study something or other and just didn't think to call you. And if I were you when he does get back? I'd start talking to him about everything. Otherwise, your guilt is going to eat you alive."

His shoulders slumped. "I don't have the best track record when it comes to opening up."

"I'd suggest you start learning, Jim. The friendship you two share is something special. I get the feeling that this may be the most important relationship you've ever had. Don't blow it because you're afraid to talk to him."

"Yeah." He cocked his head and smiled crookedly. "You know, you're not bad at this advice stuff."

Simon waved a hand in the air. "That's why they call me Captain and pay me the big bucks. Now get outta here and get that case solved."

He rose to his feet. "Yessir."

"And Jim? Make sure that when you do have that talk with the kid, that you're honest with him about how you feel."

Jim blinked and slowly walked back to his desk. Just what the hell had Simon meant by that?


	4. Chapter 4

Time and space existed now only inside his mind, though he was beyond recognizing that fact. His world was punctuated by three things, cycling over and over.

First came the encroachment of foreign emotions into his consciousness. They always came abruptly, as if forcibly inserted in his head without regard for his pain. They bombarded him relentlessly, painfully, as if someone had opened his skull and poured fear, loathing, pity, lust and more inside him and then taken a spoon and mixed them all up in an ugly emotional stew.

Next came the physical agony--icy fire, freezing and burning him at the same time, spikes of pain, stabbing at him, torment and torture.

Last, came the void. A numbness, an absence of pain which brought a relief of sorts, but never, ever comfort or pleasure. Those were denied to him. He had no greater wish than to cease feeling.

Only one thing provided even a modicum of true solace. His stubborn clinging to Jim--to his name and the image of his face. He'd forgotten why it was so important, if he'd ever known. The name and the face gave his life the only meaning it had left. His only sanctuary, for however brief a time, before the pain returned.


	5. Chapter 5

Jim dropped the receiver on its cradle and sighed. Another concerned citizen sure that he'd just sighted Mickleson, current Cascade public enemy number one. The sighting was probably bogus, but it didn't matter. He'd have to follow up on the call, even though the likelihood of it being a real lead was near to zero.

Mickleson was a Grade A Prime Scumbag. Jim had thought that he'd put him away for good, but a fancy lawyer managed to get his conviction overturned on a technicality. Mickleson had left prison and headed straight for Cascade, bent on getting even with the upstanding citizens who'd testified against him. It appeared that he'd managed to get his revenge on all three of them.

Jim tried to work up some enthusiasm for the hunt, but he was just too damned tired. Nightmares about Sandburg had plagued him every night without letup and that knot of fear had taken up permanent residence in his gut.

He glanced over at Henri Brown. "Hey, Brown? I've got a lead on Mickleson. You free to go see if it pans out?"

Brown looked up from his computer, a surprised expression on his face. "Uh, sure, Jim. Think this might be serious?" He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair.

"Could be. Who the hell knows? If it is, I figure I could use some backup."

"I gotcha." Jim could feel Brown's gaze on him while they waited for the elevator to reach the parking garage. "You look tired, man."

He shrugged. "Haven't been sleeping that great the last few nights."

"When's Sandburg coming back into the station?"

Jim narrowed his eyes and shot him a sharp look. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Brown grinned and held up his hands. "Not a thing. I was just asking, babe. I haven't seen Hairboy around for awhile. That's all."

Jim frowned and muttered, "You and me, both."

"What?"

"He's taking some time off. Traveling around. He's supposed to be back from his trip in a few weeks."

"Ah."

Jim glared at him, but Brown just smiled.

 

 

 

Jim pulled up in front of a seedy looking house and shut off the engine. He double-checked the address and shrugged. This was it. A glance up and down the street showed other homes in more or less the same rundown condition. There were a few desultory attempts at landscaping--a straggly looking bush here, a drooping tree already losing its leaves in the middle of summer there--but, for the most part, an air of general neglect hovered over the neighborhood like a malignant presence. As if the residents had given up hope of improving their lot in life.

He shook off his melancholy thoughts with an effort. "Guess this is it. Shall we see if our anonymous informant was right?"

"Let's do it."

As they walked through the weed choked yard, Jim cautiously extended his senses. Frequent sensory spikes had sent his confidence in his control plummeting. He swallowed his relief when he discerned a single heartbeat coming from inside the house. Unwilling to chance a spike occurring at an inopportune moment, he forced his senses down to a normal level.

He waited for Brown to get set and pulled out his badge. He wasn't sure who was more surprised when the door opened, him or Mickleson. One fast look at Jim's badge and Mickleson cursed and slammed the door in their faces. Even Brown could hear the noise the man made as he plowed through the house to the rear.

"Damn!" Brown drew his gun.

Jim pointed to the left. "Go that way! I'll take this side. I'm willing to bet he's the only one in the house."

Brown didn't respond; he just took off around the side of the house where Jim had pointed. Jim dashed to the right and rounded the corner of the yard in time to see Mickleson hoist himself over the rear fence.

"Shit." Jim holstered his gun and sprinted after him. "Call it in!" He ignored Brown's yell to wait and jumped for the fence.

A wild race ensued through the junkiest yards Jim had ever seen. He hoisted himself over one rough wood fence after another and he cursed Mickleson each time as splinters gouged into his hands and arms. In one unlikely move he slipped and almost impaled himself on a dead bush, preventing his near death by an even more unlikely contortion of his torso, but still managing to bruise the entire left side of his body as he landed.

"God damn it, Mickleson," he panted as he grimly pushed himself up and kept running, "you better pray that I don't get my hands on you, you asshole."

It was a damn good thing that it was the middle of summer. It might be warm, but at least he didn't have to contend with tons of trash, rusted out shells of cars and rain and mud at the same time. Several times he came close to taking a tumble when the trash he landed on slid under him, but each time he managed to stay upright and continue on.

Jim watched from several paces back as Mickleson hurdled a twisted lump of unidentifiable metal only to land on a loose pile of paper and cardboard that shifted out from under his feet, tossing him to the ground. Jim cautiously skirted the metal pile and tackled him. He cuffed Mickleson and fished his cell phone out of his pocket to call Brown.

 

 

 

From there it was nearly over save for the congratulations. The shirt Mickleson was wearing had a bloodstain on it. The blood matched that of the third victim. Based on that, a general search warrant for the house and property was promptly granted. Jim, Brown and Simon, along with a Forensics team, combed the place looking for the evidence they needed to tie Mickleson to the murders.

Jim's senses kept cutting out completely or spiking on him during the search and he could feel Simon's concern. He ignored the pointed looks and put up with Simon suddenly sticking to his side like...well, like Sandburg. And, damn if it didn't seem to help a bit.

During a moment when his sense of smell cooperated, he stopped in one of the bedrooms. He could smell blood, not much of it, but certainly not coming from a location he'd expect.

"Jim?" Simon's voice was soft. "Have you got something?"

"Yeah, I think so."

He slid the closet doors open and knelt in the far corner. His sense of touch refused to cooperate as he felt along the baseboard. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder at Simon. "Could you get me something to use to pry this off?"

Simon returned within seconds carrying a knife from the kitchen. "Here. What d'you think's behind there?"

"I'm not sure. But I smell blood, so I'm thinking this might be important."

Simon looked back over his shoulder, checking that they were alone. "You smell blood? What, like a lot of it?"

"Uh-uh. It's faint, whatever it is." He popped the baseboard off and a strip of metal appeared in the hollowed out hole. Jim eased out a flat metal box. He slipped the catch and raised the lid. Sitting inside was a nasty looking hunting knife.

"You're sure you smelled blood?" Simon's voice held a hint of skepticism. The knife looked clean.

Jim nodded. "Oh yeah. It's even stronger with the lid open."

Simon walked to the door of the bedroom and yelled for one of the crime scene analysts.

An earnest looking young woman answered his bellow. "Sir?"

"Jim may have found one of the murder weapons, but it's been wiped clean. Any chance of getting something off of it?" Simon pointed at the knife in the metal box.

"Maybe." She flashed a smile and set her case down, flipping open the lid. She pulled out a small vial and motioned for Jim to hold the knife out. "A couple of drops of luminol should tell us if there's any blood on it." As if by magic, the blade of the knife turned red under the clear liquid.

"Good work." Simon's voice held a hint of apology as if making up for his earlier doubt.

"This shows that blood's present, sir," the young woman cautioned, "but it can't tell us whose blood it is. Or even if it's human blood at all."

"Yeah, but who would hide a hunting knife like that if it hadn't been used for something illegal?" Jim asked.

"True," Simon said. He watched the analyst bag and tag the knife, pack up her kit and leave the room. "Well, assuming that's the knife, what are the chances that we'll find the gun here somewhere, too?"

Jim's senses chose that moment to start playing hardball. He grasped Simon's arm, trying to anchor himself as he wrestled with the alternating spikes and loss of sensation, finally ruthlessly nailing the imaginary dials firmly into the position that represented normal. His confidence in being able to keep them there was shot and he figured he didn't have long before they started moving up and down at will. He'd been a damn good detective before his sentinel senses had flared up and he was still a damn good detective. It was time to put that training and skill to use again without benefit of what he sometimes thought of as his crutch.

"Jim? You okay?"

He wiped a hand over his face. "Yeah. I'm good to go, Simon. Let's see if we can't find that gun."

They diligently searched the house one more time, starting from the living room. Finally, fatigue dragging at him, Jim sat at the kitchen table and closed his eyes. The house didn't belong to Mickleson, but he obviously lived there and was familiar with it. The place was a pig-sty, including the kitchen. So, why wasn't there more of a smell about it? Mickleson didn't strike Jim as the kind of guy who'd worry much about taking out the garbage.

His sense of smell was still under firm control and he wasn't about to risk changing that when he could just get up and check it out for himself. The garbage can under the sink appeared empty, save for one of those disposable plastic pail liners. When he picked it up, something heavy shifted under the liner. He pulled it out from the cabinet and sat it on the floor.

"Simon? I think I have something here."

"Let's see it."

He carefully pulled the liner from the sides of the pail and they both stared down at the handgun resting on the bottom.

"We've got him."

"Still have to run it through ballistics," Jim cautioned. "We don't know that it's the gun that killed Stollier."

They looked at each other and drawled in unison, "Right."

Simon grinned. "If I were a betting man, I'd put all of my money on this one. Let's leave whatever's left to the others and get back to the Station. I'm going to make a little visit down to Forensics and see if I can't help hurry the process along."

"Yes sir." Jim was more than happy to be done with this case. He had his own, more important investigation to launch.

 

 

 

In the end, both the knife and the gun panned out as the murder weapons and Mickleson was charged with having committed multiple homicides. The Mayor was ecstatic, wanting to call a press conference and have his prize detective by his side while he preened about how tough he was on crime. Jim wasn't about to be paraded around like the Mayor's lapdog, but Simon was the one who'd catch the flack if he didn't show up.

He offered an out that Simon gladly presented to the Mayor--putting Jim in front of the cameras too frequently would make him useless for undercover work as well as too visible for straight forward investigating. The explanation was grudgingly accepted by the Chief and the Mayor, and Jim was excused from the good old boy handshaking and back slapping, with Simon taking his place.

Simon had told him to go home and get some rest, but instead he'd gone right back to the Station. His fear was pushing him to _do something_ already about Sandburg's disappearance and it was time to start listening. Several phone calls later, he'd hit a dead end and the feeling of something being very wrong had taken permanent hold.

He stood and stretched, sighing when his back cracked and popped. With the exception of the wild chase after Mickleson, he'd been doing far too much sitting behind a desk lately. He remained standing, undecided about whether to go for another cup of the sludge they laughingly referred to as coffee from the break room or to just get right back to deciding his next course of action.

Simon entered the bullpen, his satisfaction from the press conference carrying over into his demeanor as he returned to Major Crime, the conquering Captain. The fact of his obvious good mood settled the question for Jim of what he should do next. If ever there was a time to make his request, it was now.

He waited until Simon was in his office and quietly approached his open door. He knocked softly on the frame and leaned into the doorway, not quite in, not quite out.

Simon smiled as he waved him inside. "I thought I told you to go home and get some rest?"

"Yeah, you did. But I had some things here that I needed to take care of."

"Not a new case?"

"No, sir." He hesitated and added, "Something personal."

Simon leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. "Sit down, Jim, before you fall down. What was so important that it couldn't wait until tomorrow? And, please, don't tell me that it has something to do with Sandburg."

"Sorry, Simon, but that's exactly what this is about. I need to take some vacation time."

Simon sat forward and frowned. "I thought we decided that the kid was just taking some time off, traveling around before he came home. Has something happened?"

"No, nothing's changed." Jim shook his head. "Well, nothing except I can't fool myself anymore into believing that he's not in trouble. He's disappeared, Simon. I need to find him before it's too late."

"Jim--"

"I know it sounds crazy, but I'm positive that I'm right. I've managed to track him to Las Vegas, but there's no sign of him after that."

"What d'you mean you've tracked him to Las Vegas?" Simon straightened. "Jim, don't tell me that you're using department resources to trace the kid."

"No, I'm not using department resources," he said, exasperation in his voice.

"All right. Tell me what you've done. From the beginning."

Jim took a deep breath and launched into a description of the calls he'd made. "Naomi told me that he was going to take the bus to the airport in Albuquerque. I know his reservation was originally with Cascade Air, so I contacted them to see if he'd gotten on a flight back to Cascade on or around the day that he left Taos. He hadn't." He didn't mention that he'd used his position as a police detective to gain the information. It wasn't really using department resources when all he'd done was mention his title and where he worked.

"I'm with you so far. So what did you do, call all of the other airlines?"

Jim smiled. "I would have if it would've been necessary. First I asked if Sandburg caught a flight on Cascade Air to some other destination around the same time frame. I figure he's a bright boy. If he couldn't get home directly, then he'd try for some kind of connecting flight from another city."

"Makes sense. So you found out that he flew to Las Vegas? Or, did he go somewhere else, first?"

"He flew to Las Vegas. The problem is, that's where the trail goes cold. He hasn't gotten on another flight with any airline since he landed there. And, so far as I can tell, he hasn't taken a bus, either. I checked with the hospitals and the morgue. No one of his description has been brought in."

"That's a relief, anyway." Simon's voice was unsteady, as if the reality of what they were discussing had just hit him.

"Yeah. Problem is, I'm stuck. I've gotten as far as I'm going to get doing this by phone. I've got to go down there and do some leg work. I need that time off, Simon."

He waited tensely and wondered who would respond to his request, his friend or his Captain. He had no doubt that his friend was now just as worried as he was, even if Simon wouldn't admit it. But as his Captain, well, they were already short-handed due to a couple of the other detectives being out with minor injuries. His Captain would be well within his rights to refuse his request.

"I'm sorry Jim, but I just can't authorize any time off right now. You know how short-handed we are." Simon rested his forearms on his desk with his hands palms up in a let's be reasonable men gesture. "Besides, I still think you're overreacting. Sounds to me as though the kid got to Las Vegas and decided to stick around and have some fun. Can you blame him?"

"This isn't about not wanting Sandburg to have a good time. This is about Sandburg having disappeared off the face of the earth once he got to Las Vegas." Jim pushed himself to his feet, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Don't you think that I called all of the major hotels? He's not registered at any of them. And before you say he could've stayed someplace else, don't you think I know that? The only way I'm going to be able to find that out is if I go down there and do some leg work. But Simon, I'm telling you, something's wrong."

Simon rose. "And I'm telling you that I can't spare you right now. Especially not to run off on some harebrained stunt that's motivated by guilt because you tossed the kid out of his home and he was murdered as a result."

Jim flinched back, not expecting those particular harsh words to come from someone he considered a friend. A cold hard anger ignited inside him and he replied before he could consider the consequences of his words.

"Fine. You can't give me the time off, then I'll take it myself." He pulled out his gun and unclipped his badge from his belt and tossed them on Simon's desk. "Consider this my official resignation."

Body stiff with tension, he turned and stalked out of the office and straight through the bullpen, ignoring the shocked stares of the other detectives present and Simon's repeated calls of "Jim!" Unwilling to wait for an empty car to arrive, he shoved the door of the stairwell open and jogged downstairs, gaining speed until he ended up at the garage at a run.

He couldn't recall much about the drive home, only that he'd avoided thinking about much of anything at all. Now he was busily shoving clothes into a suitcase while simultaneously talking on the phone to Cascade Air, trying to get a seat on the earliest available flight to Las Vegas. He'd just given his credit card number for a first class seat on a flight leaving at 7:30 in the morning, when someone knocked on his front door. He tentatively extended his sense of smell and smiled grimly at the scent of cigars. Simon wasn't going to let him leave without a fight.

He hung up the phone after getting the confirmation number on his e-ticket for the morning and trotted down the stairs carrying his suitcase, to see what his boss--correction, his former boss--wanted.

"Simon."

"Jim." Simon sighed. "Look, you want to let me in or are we going to do this standing here in your doorway?"

Jim stepped back and opened the door wide enough for Simon to enter the loft. There was no way that he was going to be talked out of going to Vegas and he wasn't sure that he wanted to hear anything else Simon might have to say. But they'd been friends for too long for Jim to completely turn him away.

Simon took in the suitcase where Jim had left it sitting next to the post in the kitchen. As he watched Simon's lips thin with disapproval, he gave up the hope that perhaps his friend was coming to offer support instead of his former Captain coming to convince him to return to work. He followed Simon into the living room and sat down opposite him when he chose the main couch.

"I guess you're waiting for me to say something."

"You're the one who showed up at my place," Jim said, his voice dry.

"I'm not here to convince you to come back to work, if that's what you're thinking." Simon smiled wryly. "And that was what you were thinking, wasn't it? No, don't answer that." He raised a hand in the air and dropped it back onto his knee.

"Then why are you here, Simon? You obviously think I'm making a mistake by going to look for him. What's the point?"

"The point is, Jim, that you're my friend. Hell, Sandburg's my friend, too. Yes, I think this is a mistake, but it's your life and if this is really something you think you need to do, well, who am I to try to stop you? I'm talking as your friend, not as your boss. As your boss, I'm pissed as hell that you're doing this."

Jim shrugged. "I'm still not sure why you're here."

"Because, even though I think you're wrong, it's just possible that you might be right. This is Sandburg we're talking about, after all." Simon gazed at him, his expression troubled. "And if you're right and I was the one who stopped you from getting there in time? I'd never be able to live with myself."

Jim sucked in his breath, taken aback by the depth of emotion in Simon's eyes. "I...I'm not sure what to say, Simon. For what it's worth, I'd rather that you're the one who's right about this and that Sandburg's partying and gambling the days and nights away in Las Vegas. I just don't believe that's what I'll find."

Simon nodded. "I wanted you to know how I felt before you left." He walked to the door, pausing at the little table that stood next to it. He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out Jim's gun and badge, setting them next to the basket. "I can do this at least. You'll have a job to come back to when you're ready. I've placed you on a 30 day personal leave."

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks. That means a lot."

Simon opened the door and stared out into the hallway. "Just make sure you're back in 30 days, Jim. Don't make me regret not putting you on disciplinary leave instead." He strode through the door and closed it without looking back.

Jim reached for his badge and gun, staring at them as he held them in his hands. They used to represent the most important thing in his life, symbols of who he thought he was. Now, the dubious honor of being the most important thing in his life belonged to Sandburg. He just had to find the kid and convince him of that.


	6. Chapter 6

__

_"I heard we're getting a visit from the head of the project next week."_

_"Rumors. I doubt they'll risk it."_

_"Yeah? Maybe not. All I know is, there've been a lot of questions lately. Especially about your lab rat, here."_

_"What kind of questions?"_

_"Somebody else found out about his connection to the cops. Hey! They didn't find out from me."_

_"They better not have. If I find out you've lied to me..."_

_"Well, I didn't. Geeze, try to warn a guy."_

_"Fuck."_

_"If I were you, I'd get rid of him while you can still salvage something out of this."_

_"You might be right at that."_

 

Something was different. Perhaps it, whatever it was, signaled an end to his agony. Or perhaps he was full of shit.

His time in the void seemed shorter. Maybe that was what was different. Maybe soon his existence would be one of continual pain. Unrelieved pain and horror. His mind gibbered and he clutched the image of Jim even tighter to his conscious thoughts. Jim was his mantra, his buffer against pain in whatever form it took. The thought of Jim might not take the pain away, but just thinking about him made it possible to endure.

He was weaker. His thoughts were more muddled and confused and he couldn't always summon the strength to fight back against the pain. He was losing. Sinking even further away from himself.

He thought about giving up. Surely ending the pain was the most he could hope for?

Another voice, stronger than his own, whispered in the back of his mind. He had to endure, it said, because Jim was coming for him.

Jim was coming? Was that true? No. There was nothing beyond this existence of pain.

How do you know, the voice whispered? You remember Jim. How do you know that he isn't coming for you? How will Jim feel if he comes for you and you weren't strong enough to hold on?

He wanted to believe that Jim was real, that he would come. Wanted to think that there was really someone who cared enough to try to save him.

Jim will come. He repeated it over and over to himself, burning it into his memory. It became his new mantra, his new protection, his new shield against the pain and suffering. Jim would come and then there would be no more pain.


	7. Chapter 7

Nick Stokes was late for work for the third time in two weeks and his boss was bound to be pissed. Not that Grissom would do or say anything to him directly. That wasn't the man's style. No, what he'd do would be far worse. Nick groaned softly as he hurried through the corridors of the Crime Lab, sure that he was about to spend the next few days catching all the shit cases that came their way.

As he passed Warrick and Sara on their way out, he turned around and walked backward for a few steps as he called out, "Warrick! Whatcha got?"

Warrick raised his hands, palm up. "DB over on the Strip. Hey, man, where were you?"

Nick grimaced. "Car wouldn't start. Had to call for a jump."

"Watch yourself. Grissom's pissed, man."

"Shit. Did he say something?" This could be worse than he'd thought. If Grissom was mad enough to bring up Nick being late when he wasn't there to defend himself, then he was definitely in the dog house.

Warrick shook his head. "Nah. You know Grissom. Sara said something and he shut her down."

"I did not!" Sara's tone was indignant, but her cheeks were flushed. Warrick just tilted his head and shrugged.

Nick sighed. "Thanks, man. Catch you later."

"Later." Warrick glanced down at Sara and smiled. "Let's go. That DB's waiting."

Nick turned and continued on. Maybe it'd be okay. Knowing Sara, she probably just made some sarcastic remark about him being late again. If Grissom shut her down, then maybe he wasn't as mad as Nick was afraid he might be. Yeah, sure, he thought sarcastically, keep telling yourself that.

As he rounded the corner into the break room, he saw Catherine standing next to the table where Grissom was seated. They were obviously in the midst of an intense, if quiet, discussion and normally Nick would have hesitated about interrupting them. The odd thing, though, was that as soon as he stepped into the room, their conversation halted abruptly and Catherine shot Grissom a look that was distinctly unhappy.

"Nick." Catherine smiled at Nick. "I'll see you at the car." She glanced at Grissom and raised her eyebrows, then strode out of the room.

Nick stood in front of Grissom's table, shifting his weight slightly as he waited for him to speak. The silence stretched between them until Nick couldn't bear waiting any longer.

"Sorry I'm late, Griss. My car wouldn't start and I had to wait for the tow truck to come give me a jump." His words tumbled out in a rush and he flushed slightly.

"It's all right, Nick. I understand." His voice was mild and held no reproof. "Next time, just try to remember to call and let me know what's going on, okay?"

"Uh. Yeah. Sure. Sorry about that, boss." Nick blinked in confusion. Grissom wasn't pissed at him? What the hell had Warrick been talking about then?

Grissom reached for his coffee mug. "I've already made the assignments. You're up with Catherine. A brawl over at one of the casinos. Mostly minor injuries." He shrugged. "Sorry Nick, but you were late and it's been a slow night. Maybe something more interesting will come up later."

"No problem. I understand. I'll just go meet up with Catherine." Nick backed out of the break room and made a beeline for the back parking lot.

Would he ever get his balance back? He'd been off kilter for awhile now, overreacting when it wasn't called for and not reacting enough when it was, and he was tired of it. Just when was it that he'd lost control of his own life? He came to an abrupt halt and inhaled sharply. Damn. He'd been feeling like this ever since that shit with Nigel Crane happened a few weeks back and he hadn't made the connection until now.

He walked the last few yards to the exit door to the parking lot, his mind carefully blank. The last thing he wanted to do was dwell on the fact that he had issues about Nigel Crane. He needed to concentrate on doing his job and not letting Griss--everyone--down.

He'd made the obligatory three visits to the department shrink, treating them as something to be endured just like he'd always done. He knew their patter by heart and he was smart enough to head off any suspicion that he might not be as fine as he claimed. Talking to a damned head doctor wasn't going to make things better. Only time and distance would do that. In the meantime, he had work to do.

The door opened with a bit more force than he'd intended, making a satisfying bang when it caromed off the cinderblock outer wall of the Lab. Catherine waited for him behind the steering wheel of the Tahoe, its motor running. Nick flashed her a tired smile, thankful that at least he was working with her on the first case of the night.

He slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. "Ready."

She nodded and stepped on the gas, easing the Tahoe smoothly into the early evening traffic. The silence stretched comfortably and Nick relaxed back in his seat. At some point during the night Catherine was going to want to have a talk, she had that vibe about her, but at least she was leaving him alone for the moment.

Curious about their destination, he grabbed the assignment sheet. "Mandalay Bay?" He raised his eyebrows and studied Catherine's profile. "There was a brawl at the Mandalay Bay?"

Her mouth turned up and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"What's the matter, Nicky?" she asked, amused. "Did you think people only got drunk and into fights at sleazy places? People can't act like jerks at classy spots like the Bay?"

He snorted. "Of course not. But you have to admit that it isn't the first place you'd expect to get sent to work a bar brawl."

Catherine chuckled. "Yeah. I'll grant you that." She flipped on the blinker and made a right hand turn into the entranceway to the hotel.

She stopped the Tahoe in front of the lobby entrance, right behind one of LVPD's finest with its lights still flashing. Nick gave a low whistle at the number of police cars parked out front. Hotel management had to be hating this. He opened up the back of the truck to pull out their kits and watched Catherine deal with an overly officious and far too young desk clerk dressed in Mandalay Bay livery.

"Ma'am?"

Well that certainly wasn't going to win the kid any concessions. Nick leaned against the open rear door of the vehicle and prepared to be amused.

When Catherine didn't answer him, the young man cleared his throat and tried again, only to compound his mistake. "Ma'am? You can't park this here, ma'am."

Catherine stopped adjusting the contents of her kit and slowly turned to stare at him. Nick smothered a chuckle as the kid visibly squirmed under her gaze.

"That's where you're wrong." She sniffed once and turned back to seal her kit and pull it out of the truck. "Come on, Nick. The sooner we get started, the sooner this place can get back to normal."

"Wait! You can't just walk off and leave this vehicle here!" The kid's voice rose to a nervous squeak.

Nick stopped next to him, tugged his ID badge out from under his jacket and held it out for inspection. "Yeah, I'm afraid we can. We've got a crime scene to examine. I assume you'd like to be rid of all the police as soon as possible, no? Well then, let us do our job, man. Part of that's having our equipment in our truck--" he pointed over his shoulder to the Tahoe, "--where we can get to it quickly."

"Oh." The young clerk flushed and visibly wilted in the face of Nick's explanation. "I'm sorry. I thought you were just a--, I mean that you weren't part of the investigation. Of course you can leave it here. I'll make sure no one disturbs it."

"Good man." Nick clapped him on the arm and hurried to catch up with Catherine.

"Get him all straightened out, did ya Nicky?" Catherine smiled.

"He's okay. Probably just a little rattled to have all these cops around. I doubt that they're used to this kind of thing." Nick shrugged.

"Yeah." Catherine stood in the middle of the casino and turned a full circle, a frown on her face. "Speaking of which, you see any sign of a disturbance?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't. Oh, hey, wait, there's O'Riley." Nick pointed off to the right, toward a neon sign that read _Race and Sports Book_.

O'Riley spotted them and raised his hand. Where the man managed to find the ugliest sport coats in existence in Las Vegas was a mystery and the yellow and brown plaid he wore tonight was a prime specimen. O'Riley's appearance was even more disheveled than usual, his tie askew and one of the buttons on his white shirt missing, allowing it to gape open slightly over his broad belly. It wasn't just his clothes that seemed in disarray, he looked as harassed as Nick could remember seeing him. Whatever had happened here was certainly trying the Sargent's patience.

"Am I glad to see you people. Catherine." He nodded at her respectfully. "It's a mess in there. We're lucky there wasn't a gun and that nothing worse happened than a bunch of property damage and a few cuts and bruises."

Catherine blinked and her eyes widened at his tone. "Sounds like there were a lot of people involved. What exactly are we talking about?"

O'Riley shook his head and sighed. "That's what I thought when I saw how trashed the place is, but it was all accomplished by four people. Well, five if you count the guy who tried to break up the fight."

They followed him through the entrance to the Sports Book and halted. Nick stared around him in disbelief at the devastation.

"Four people did all this damage?" He gestured at the room. "No way, man."

Most of the furniture was overturned and crushed glass covered a good portion of the floor. Before he had a chance to wonder where all of the glass came from, he glanced up at the wall that held the rows of television sets and felt his jaw drop. One of the chair and table combination seats that were normally lined up neatly in several rows in front of the video display hung half-in/half-out of one of the wide screen plasma televisions that dominated the middle of the wall. Several of the surrounding smaller monitors were also smashed in.

O'Riley shrugged. "For once all of the witnesses agree. It was a slow night, so there wasn't much of a crowd." He pointed at two men being detained by uniformed officers off to the right. "These gentlemen got here first. According to them, they were minding their own business, drinking and betting."

He flipped through his notebook and read for a minute. "About that time, those two--" he jabbed his finger at two men being detained off to the left, "--showed up. The cocktail waitress said they were already drunk, so she told the bartender to water their drinks down to almost nothing. Says she figured they wouldn't notice and that she didn't charge them for anything but soda. Anyway, they got obnoxious, took offense at something the other two said and that's all it took."

"And they did all of this?" Catherine shook her head. "What about the other one? The fifth guy?"

"Oh. Him. The hero." O'Riley frowned. "Everyone says that he came in after the fight had been going on for a few minutes and tried to break it up. Succeeded, too, but not before one of these yo-yos sent that chair crashing into the TV. Guy took a few licks for his trouble." He jerked his chin in the direction of the upper level, where a tall, well-built man in his mid-to-late thirties stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

Nick studied him for a moment and was taken by surprise when the guy turned his head suddenly and stared right at him with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. Nick blinked rapidly, but didn't let his gaze drop. After a moment, the guy smiled slightly and turned back to finish whatever he was saying to the uniformed officer next to him. Nick slowly let out his breath.

"Let's get to work. Nick, you want to process our friends over there and I'll work on these two?" Catherine snapped on a pair of latex gloves and grabbed her case. "I'll meet up with you at the wall." She grinned and nodded at the hanging chair.

"You got it." He glanced back at the mysterious hero of the evening and headed for his pair of suspects.

There really wasn't much to process. He scraped for skin samples under their fingernails and took mouth swabs in case DNA analysis was required, but it was a routine case. The cuts and bruises he saw weren't even enough to warrant an ER visit. The EMTs treated and released them on site. If it hadn't been for the amount of damage inflicted and the fact that it was at the Mandalay Bay, he doubted that they would've spent as much time as they did on the scene.

When he was through and the officers led away his suspects for booking, he glanced over at Catherine and saw that she was still finishing up with her pair. He might as well deal with the hero and let the guy get out of there. O'Riley was handling the Sports Book manager, but when Nick headed for the mystery man, he broke off his conversation and joined him.

"So what's the story with this guy?" Nick asked, his voice low.

O'Riley shrugged. "Not much to tell. Says he's here on vacation, saw the fight and tried to break it up. Doesn't know any of the others. Just a concerned citizen trying to help."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

The man in question was obviously waiting for them. The expression on his face spoke of long suffering patience, as if he'd rather be elsewhere, but knew that there were procedures to follow before that could happen. Nick studied his face and was surprised by the amount of bruising there, most of it the faded yellow and green mottling that indicated it had occurred some days previous. He also had a couple of old bruises on his left arm. Just what did he do for a living?

"Nick Stokes, Criminalistics." He smiled engagingly and was rewarded with a slight thawing of expression. "And you are?"

"James Ellison." His voice was soft, almost gentle, and not at all what Nick had expected. Under the bruises, he was a handsome man, with high cheekbones, wide set eyes and a strong chin. His good looks were marred by dark circles under his eyes and, of course, the fading bruises that made him look like he'd gone a few rounds in a boxing ring several days ago.

"Those're some nasty bruises you have on your face, Mr. Ellison. Mind telling me how you got them?" Nick gave him the once over as he waited for an answer and noticed several spots of blood on Ellison's light blue shirt.

"Why?" His voice was dry, but not challenging. "It has to be obvious that I didn't get them tonight."

Nick smiled slightly. "True. Indulge me."

Ellison shrugged and glanced away as he answered. "It happened at work."

"What do you do for a living?"

"Does that matter?" This time there was a definite challenge in his voice.

"Not really, I guess," Nick replied, his voice mild. "I just like to know all of the facts."

"You're here on vacation, is that right, Mr. Ellison?" O'Riley asked.

"Yes." There was something about the hesitation in his voice that made Nick glance at him sharply. "I had some time off my job and I haven't been to Vegas in years. Place has changed quite a bit since the last time I was here." The delivery was deadpan, with a dry note of humor in his voice.

"Are you in the habit of breaking up brawls like this?" O'Riley sounded genuinely curious, as if he were asking simply because he wanted to know the answer.

"Only if I'm around when they happen." Ellison cocked his head. "Am I being accused of something? Because, if I'm not, I'm tired and I'm sore and I'd really like to go back to my hotel now."

"I'm afraid I'll need your shirt," Nick said apologetically.

"My shirt?" Ellison glanced down at his chest and sighed. "The blood. Of course. Here." He unbuttoned his shirt with his right hand, pulled the tails out of his khaki trousers and slipped it off.

Nick folded it and placed it in an evidence bag. He tried not to stare too obviously at Ellison's chest. The tank tee that he wore only served to emphasize his muscles. He obviously worked out regularly and Nick told himself that he admired anyone who did that, that's all. That and the fact that the bruising wasn't confined to Ellison's face, but covered much of his left shoulder and upper arm as well. It must have hurt like a son of a bitch when he got them.

He looked at O'Riley and said, "I've got everything I need."

O'Riley nodded. "Well, Mr. Ellison, I guess you're free to go then. We've got your contact information, both while you're here and when you return home."

Ellison nodded.

"Hope the rest of your stay is more pleasant than this," Nick said with a smile. He was puzzled by the flash of pain that crossed Ellison's face, but it was gone quickly.

"Thanks."

Nick watched Ellison slowly walk out of the room, noting that he held himself a bit stiffly and limped slightly on his left leg. Had he sustained the injuries during the fight, or were they from whatever had caused the bruises on his face and shoulder? Nick shook his head. It wasn't his problem. He caught up with Catherine at the media wall.

They finished processing the scene quickly and checked with O'Riley before leaving. Nick was quiet on the way back, grateful that Catherine seemed preoccupied. No matter what he tried to concentrate on, his thoughts seemed bound and determined to stray back to one James Ellison. There was something about the man that made Nick uneasy and he hated not being able to put his finger on just what it was.

It wasn't the kind of feeling he got when he was sure a suspect was lying to him. He didn't think that Ellison was any more involved in the fracas than it appeared on the surface. Rather, it was a feeling that there was more to Ellison, more to discover, more to know, something that just wasn't jiving with Nick's mental image of an innocent tourist trying to do the right thing. He rolled his eyes. No freakin' way would he describe Ellison as innocent. There was too much depth in the man's eyes to ever think him that.

He sighed softly and wrenched his thoughts back to the job at hand. All they really needed to do was turn the evidence they'd collected over to Trace for processing and then they'd be available for another case. Assuming that this didn't turn out to be a slow night, that is. Three years and he still felt vaguely guilty about preferring to be busy. After all, when they were busy, it meant people were being beaten and robbed and killed. Nick didn't wish harm to anyone, but since those things were going to happen in Las Vegas he preferred that they happen on his shift. Let Eckley and the day crew get the boring cases.

And just like that, his thoughts circled around to Ellison. Another thing that struck Nick odd about the man was his choice of Vegas as a vacation spot. Not that he hadn't ever been wrong before when it came to sizing people up, but Ellison didn't strike him as the kind of man who came to Vegas for the gambling. So, just what had brought Ellison to the Sports Book in the first place? He made a mental note to ask O'Riley the next time he saw him.

"Deep thoughts?" Catherine glanced at him and smiled. "Penny for 'em."

Nick shook his head. "Nah. Not so deep. I was just wondering whether this was going to turn out to be a busy night or not."

"Um."

Nick was startled when she drove past their turn.

"Cath? You just missed our turn." He raised his eyebrows when she pulled over and parked by the curb. "Something going on?"

"Nick." Catherine half turned to face him in the darkened cab. "I know it's probably none of my business, but is there anything you'd like to talk about? Because, you know, I'm a good listener."

"Catherine," he said, a bit helplessly.

"I know that you've been having a hard time lately Nick. Don't worry. It hasn't been all that obvious. But I've noticed. And so has Grissom."

He shook his head and glanced out the window. "Great. That's all I need."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed and faced her. "The last thing I need is for Grissom to think I can't keep it together. I've had a hard enough time proving to him that I really did deserve my Level 3 badge. That I don't have to be watched to make sure I'm not missing something or making mistakes."

She frowned. "Where on earth did you get that idea? Grissom has nothing but respect for you. If he's pushed you to dig deeper into things, it's because he sees your potential and wants to help you meet it. Not because he doesn't think you can handle the job." She shook her head. "My God, Nick, you know Grissom. If that's what he really thought you'd be transferred off his shift so fast that your head would spin."

She sounded so sure of what she was saying. He wanted to take a step back and examine his assumptions, but he needed time and space to do that. Still, she'd just given him real food for thought after he got off tomorrow morning.

"Yeah. I guess," he said cautiously. "But even if that's true, I still don't want Grissom thinking that I'm having some kind of breakdown or something."

"Is that what's going on?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Nick shook his head violently from side to side. "No. No, not at all. I just don't want him, or-or you, to get that impression. I'm just a little...off balance right now. That's all. I'm sure everything will be back to normal soon." He hated the pleading note that crept into his voice.

Catherine took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, her eyes searching his face, her expression troubled. "You had those sessions with the counselor after...well, after, right?"

She couldn't bring herself to mention Nigel Crane by name. Come to think of it, he'd hardly heard anyone say the guy's name since the day they'd all watched from behind the two way mirror while Crane had had his own meltdown. It was as if by not invoking his name that they could all pretend that it hadn't happened. That it hadn't happened to Nick.

"Yeah. I went to the counselor. Made all of the required visits." He shrugged. "I know the drill, Catherine. There wasn't anything that he could tell me that I haven't heard before. It just takes time, that's all. Things are okay. They'll get better. I just need to feel like it's okay to be off-kilter for awhile. That everyone isn't expecting me to act like nothing at all happened." He stared out the window into the darkness.

She laid a warm hand on his arm. "Of course we're not expecting you to act like that." When he faced her, she smiled at him. "I'm sorry to dredge this up. I guess I thought that if you could talk about it, that you'd feel better. Maybe I'm the one who needed reassurance, huh?"

"'Sokay. Think we can go back to the Lab now?" He smiled to let her know that he didn't mind. And he didn't. Not really. It warmed him that she would even bother with all of this.

"Yeah. Don't want Grissom to send out the troops looking for us." She started the engine and pulled a U-turn to head back for the Lab.

"Oh, I doubt he'd do that." Nick chuckled and wondered at the look she sent his way.

 

 

 

They dropped off the evidence they'd collected and parted company. Nick headed for the break room and a cup of coffee, assuming that Catherine was on her way to Grissom's office, probably to clue him in on his current state of mind. He didn't care about that so much as he wished that if Grissom had something to say to him that he'd do it in person instead of asking Catherine to do his snooping for him.

Warrick and Sara were in the hallway, arguing over their current case. It sounded interesting enough that Nick held back and listened. Just far enough away not to be sucked into their disagreement, but close enough not to be considered an eavesdropper.

"I'm not sayin' that our vic didn't die of an overdose," Warrick said, his tone exasperated. "All I'm saying is that we don't know what drug was used and we don't know whether he took whatever it was voluntarily or not."

"And I'm saying that all you have to do is look at him. He fits the profile of a junkie." Sara ticked off the points on her fingers. "He's underweight for his height, obviously malnourished. His appearance shows a marked lack of concern for personal hygiene. There are signs of multiple needle punctures on his arms alone. We haven't even seen the rest of his body yet."

"Exactly." Warrick inclined his head. "We haven't seen all of the evidence yet. I'm not willing to jump to a conclusion until we do."

"Fine." Sara rolled her eyes. "I'll see Greg about getting started on the blood analysis. You want to do the autopsy?"

Warrick shrugged. "Sure." He shook his head as he watched her walk off.

"Sounds like you've got a difference of opinion there." Nick smiled when Warrick snorted.

"You know Sara. She gets an idea in her head and she's like a bull in a china shop." He smiled slightly. "It wouldn't be so irritating if she wasn't usually right."

"But you don't think she's right this time?"

"No. I don't. I have a feeling about this one." He turned a troubled gaze on Nick. "A bad feeling."

"Want some company on the autopsy?"

"If you're free, sure. I can always use another pair of eyes."

As they headed for the morgue, Nick asked, "So, what do you think it is that's giving you this feeling? I know what you said, but there must be something."

"This has all the trappings of an OD by an addict. It's just...I was talking to Crockett, on days? He mentioned that he'd just worked two ODs in the last few days. Both men, both showing the same indications of typical addiction as our guy. Both found in different parts of the city."

"And?"

"And they weren't full of heroine or meth or crack or any of the street drugs you might expect to find. There were traces, sure, but they'd OD'd on medical grade barbiturates injected directly into the bloodstream."

"And you think that's what you're going to find with your vic? If that's true, what's the connection between the three of them?" Nick frowned.

"I don't know." Warrick's expression was grim. "But if it is true, then we may have a serial killer on our hands."


	8. Chapter 8

Jim splashed cold water on his face and braced his hands on the bathroom sink. He leaned wearily against the counter top and peered at his reflection in the wavy glass of the mirror as water dripped from his chin into the basin. No wonder that CSI had done a double take when he'd looked at his face. With the fading purple and yellow mottling from his bruises and the dark circles under his eyes, he looked like five miles of bad road.

He grabbed the worn white hand towel from the rack and swiped it over his face, grimacing at the rough texture. Why was it that all other fabric turned soft after repeated washings, but cheap terrycloth managed to become rough and brittle? Sandburg would probably have a theory about that, he thought with a sigh.

He dropped the used towel onto the back of the toilet and flipped off the light as he left the bathroom. His back was stiff and his bruises, old and new, were sore. Jim stared at the lumpy mattress in distaste, longing for the comfort of his own bed.

All four of the tiny pillows propped into a pile barely made a soft lump between his back and the headboard. The TV remote control was on the bed beside him, next to the notebook where he tracked his search for Sandburg. He flipped through the channels until he found a local newscast, automatically turning the sound down to a nearly inaudible level. It was just enough volume for him to keep an ear out for anything interesting while he updated his lack of progress.

Jim pulled the notebook onto his lap and slowly turned the pages, skimming through his meager notes. He'd been in Vegas for nearly a week and he still didn't have a solid lead. At least one of the attendants at the Cascade Air counter at McCarran International had remembered Sandburg, or as she'd described him, much to her co-worker's amusement, "that cute guy with the dreamy blue eyes and the yummy hair."

She'd remembered that Sandburg had inquired about a seat on an earlier flight and that she'd had to turn him away. Since he had several hours to wait before his flight left, she'd pointed out the suitcase lockers and suggested that he might be more comfortable if he took advantage of them. She'd watched him head off in their direction, but couldn't swear that he'd actually used them.

Jim had walked slowly along the banks of lockers, raising the dial on his sense of smell ever so slightly. Shock had raced through him when he'd caught a whiff of Sandburg's scent, the tell-tale smell emanating from a lower locker. It might be tenuous, but it was the first tangible proof that Sandburg had really been there. He'd wanted to find an airport official and demand that they open the locker, but he had no grounds to justify such an action. So, he'd noted the locker number and moved on, intending to re-visit it at various times while he continued his search.

He flipped another page in his notebook and sighed. No one else at the airport had remembered Sandburg. He'd taken a calculated risk based on his intimate knowledge of how the kid's mind worked and decided that the fact that Sandburg had stored his luggage, coupled with having several hours to kill, meant that he would have headed for the glitzy casinos along the Strip.

A couple of years ago, after the disastrous retreat at St. Sebastian's Monastery, they'd joked about going to Las Vegas for their next vacation. They'd never actually made it, but they'd kept the joke alive between them. During boring stakeouts or when one or the other of them was recuperating after being injured, they'd talk about what they'd do in Vegas. Once, after a particularly gruesome case, Sandburg had wistfully mentioned that he'd never been there and that he'd like to see some of the big theme casinos.

He figured that that's where Sandburg would go with twelve or so hours to kill. And knowing Sandburg's predilection for placing the occasional sports bet, he decided to check out the sports casinos first. Jim hadn't been to Vegas since he left the Army. While he'd seen pictures of the newer casinos since then, it was still a shock to see them in person. And it appeared that each one of them had its own version of a sports book. The _Race and Sports Book_ at the Mandalay Bay had just been the latest on his list to visit.

He never got the chance to ask his questions; the four idiots involved in the brawl had already been going at it when he arrived. It had probably been a stupid thing to do, considering that casino security were staying out of it, but he hadn't been thinking all that clearly when he jumped into the fray. Truth was, he'd managed to take out some of his own frustration while pulling the drunkards apart and keeping them from braining each other. Too bad about that plasma screen, though. He added a reminder in his notebook to return to the Mandalay Bay in a few days.

A news segment caught his eye and he glanced at the screen. An overly made up blonde sat in a studio earnestly reading her copy while behind her was a night scene of an alley between two modest looking casinos. Well, they were modest looking compared to places like the Mandalay, the Excalibur and their ilk. The casinos on the screen looked older and slightly run down.

What caught his attention though, was the mention that this was the fourth drug overdose found in the last several days. While ODs weren't uncommon in Las Vegas, apparently this many in a short time period was unusual. LVPD wasn't commenting on whether the deaths were related or just a bizarre coincidence.

As Jim watched the scene unfold in the background, he recognized Nick, the CSI from the Mandalay Bay. This time, instead of the blonde woman, he was accompanied by an older man about his same height, with greying brown hair and wearing glasses. Jim watched the interaction of the two and was puzzled by a sense of familiarity. The obvious competence that they displayed while doing their job impressed him.

His cell phone rang and he scooped it up, grateful for the diversion. He knew who was on the other end without bothering to check the display.

"Ellison."

"Jim? It's Simon."

"Hey Simon. What's up?" He smiled wryly. Who else would it be? The man had called him without fail every night since he'd been gone.

"Not much. Just wanted to check in with you. See how your inquiries are going."

"Still not much on this end. I've got a few more sports casinos to canvas. Then I'll start on some of the non-gambling attractions. You know what a big kid Sandburg is."

Simon chuckled. "Yeah. You'll probably find him hanging out at one of the roller coasters they have down there." There was an odd note in his voice, as if he were trying to pretend that Sandburg had just gone out for coffee and missed meeting up with Jim on schedule.

Something about that put a lump in Jim's throat and his voice was rough when he spoke. "You never know, Simon. You just never know." He cleared his throat self-consciously. "So, what's going on up there? Anything happening in Major Crime."

"Same old, same old. A couple of new cases, but nothing that we can't handle. I've got Henri and Rafe working on a drug operation and I've assigned a new murder investigation to Collins. It's an odd one, but I have every confidence that he'll figure it out."

Jim nodded even though Simon couldn't see him. "Dave's tenacious. Give him a puzzle and he'll latch on until he's got it solved. I'm surprised you didn't give him the drug thing. I would've thought with his experience in Narcotics that he'd be the natural choice."

"Yeah, well, you know I got the feeling that part of the reason he wanted out of Narcotics was to get away from that scene for awhile. Besides, Henri and Rafe were up for the next case when it came along."

"I'm sure they'll do fine."

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. They spoke of inconsequentials--Daryl and the rain and the new guy that Rhonda was dating--and Jim let Simon's conversation wash over him like a soothing breath of home. He hadn't realized just how much he'd become integrated into Major Crime and how much he'd miss having those resources behind him until he'd arrived in Vegas and realized that he was truly on his own. Once upon a time he would've declared that that was just the way he liked it, but no longer. He missed the camaraderie and support that he'd grown accustomed to in Major Crime. He just missed Sandburg more.

"Jim? Are you still there?" The concern in Simon's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"I'm here, Simon. Sorry about that. Guess I was just deep in my thoughts."

"Yeah. That wasn't one of those zone things, was it? You doing okay with your senses?"

"No, that wasn't a zone." He smiled slightly. "My senses are fine, Simon. I'm just tired."

"Well. Okay then. I'll let you get some rest." There was a hint of reluctance in his voice that touched Jim.

"Thanks, Simon. Listen, I'll talk to you tomorrow, right?"

"Right. Good night Jim."

"'Night Simon." He closed his cell phone and tossed it onto the bed next to him.

He continued to watch TV without any real interest, until his eyelids drooped. He ached and he was exhausted. Maybe, just maybe, he was tired enough to drop into a dreamless sleep.

Jim continued to be plagued by nightmares about Sandburg. He always found himself in the same pseudo-medical setting. Sandburg was always strapped down, always about to be injected with something that caused him excruciating pain. And always in the nightmares, he was calling out for Jim. The worst of it was that each successive night Sandburg seemed less aware than the night before, as if what was happening to him was gradually sapping his strength and killing his spirit.

He felt helpless to prevent what was happening in his dreams and he awoke each morning feeling wrung out and heartsick, as though he'd really been experiencing the things that he'd dreamt. His fear that there was more to the nightmares than just subconscious guilt was wearing him down. He'd just about sell his soul for one solid night's sleep.

 

 

 

__

_He felt the approach of the Other and tried to hide. It was Spite--the one he feared the most. The Others had their own mental flavors, each one, and he'd named them accordingly. There were Fear and Apathy and Lust, but the only one he truly was afraid of was Spite. He could just as easily have chosen Anger or Hatred or Contempt as that One's name, but somehow Spite seemed to encompass it all._

_Spite was gleeful in his torment. Spite purposely tried to prolong his pain. When Spite came, he cowered in the dark recesses of his mind. He'd tried to stand up to Spite at first, but he'd grown far too weak to attempt that anymore. Now he hid as deeply as he could bury himself, ashamed of his weakness._

_The only thing that kept him from giving up completely, was that none of the Others could sense him. He wasn't sure why that was, but he wasn't going to question it for fear that it would end. He wasn't going to go out of his way to draw their attention. Each time they came, he was afraid that it would be the time when it changed, when they'd figure out that he was there and then they'd really make him pay._

_He hid, but it wasn't enough. The anger and hatred--the bile--that poured into him from Spite, burned his mind; branding him with its poison. He endured, but it didn't make him stronger. His essence, his very soul, was being leeched away and he feared that once gone it could never be restored._

_When the physical pain arrived he nearly wept at the respite from the attack on his mind. It wasn't any easier to endure, but at least Spite was gone and his mind was left to him alone. He'd rather feel twice the physical pain if it meant that the Others would stay out of his head. He no longer had the strength to cry out, or to make any sound at all, so he suffered in a terrible, profound silence._

_This time when he floated after the pain, he thought that he must be near the end. That saddened him. Not because he wanted to continue to exist any longer, but because if he ceased to be then he'd never know if Jim was real or only a figment of his imagination--a hallucination to cling to through the pain and misery._

_It depressed him to think that Jim might not be real, that he'd created him out of whole cloth. Part of him refused to believe it; the stubborn part that insisted that Jim was coming for him, that everything would be okay when Jim got there. That all he had to do was hang on--and believe._

_He slid into oblivion, believing in Jim._

 

 

 

Jim woke in the dark and lay there unmoving. He didn't need to touch his face to know that it was wet with tears. Sorrow, like a great weight, pressed on his chest and he moaned, curling around onto his side. He shuddered as he fought to control his emotions. The first raw sob was torn from him and he buried his face in his pillow, muffling the sound as he released his pain.

The initial storm passed and he rolled onto his back, sniffling and wiping away the wetness from his cheeks. Heaving a great sigh, he swung his legs out from under the covers and sat up. His head hung forward and stray tears fell onto his arms and thighs. Small shudders still wracked his frame.

Jim swiped again at his tears, grimacing at the hot, swollen feeling of his face and eyes. He walked unsteadily to the bathroom, but left the light off. A faint hint of colored light seeped into the bedroom through the gaps between the blackout drapes and the window, illuminating the room in glowing rainbows of purple, green, yellow and red, more than enough light for Jim to see the room clearly.

He splashed cold water on his face and averted his gaze from the mirror. He had no interest in the image reflected in the glass. Instead, he let the cold water drip from his face onto his tee shirt as he walked over to the window and slipped between the drapes to stare out at the Strip.

The Gold Spike Hotel was cheap, but clean, and he'd chosen it to stretch his money in case he needed longer than the thirty days that Simon had given him. He didn't intend to return to Cascade without Sandburg. No matter how long or what it took to find him, Jim was committed to his search. Simon had to suspect the truth. Jim was sure that was one of the reasons that he made it a point to call him every night; Simon wanted to maintain as much contact as possible considering that they were over 1200 miles distant from one another.

The Las Vegas Strip was a few miles from his hotel, but Jim had no trouble focusing his sight to see the huge, well-lit mega-hotels and casinos that lined the popular throughway. He idly played with zooming in on individuals and then pulling back to take in the larger scene. If Sandburg were standing next to him he'd be peppering Jim with questions about what he could see--_give me the details, man, when am I gonna get this kind of chance with you again?_. He fought to swallow past the lump that formed in his throat.

What the hell was the matter with him lately? He was turning into an emotional wreck. Nothing had changed since he'd gone to bed. It was just a stupid nightmare dredged up by his subconscious mind. That small, insidious voice in his head whispered, but it didn't feel like a dream, now did it? He sighed and leaned his forehead against the window, the glass cool against the fevered heat of his skin.

Jim rolled his head against the glass, glancing away from the Strip up Fremont Street towards the Plaza Hotel. He watched the neon lights of the various casinos blankly, coming perilously close to zoning. He wasn't sure what caught his eye, but his attention was drawn to the darkness of Ogden Street just off the brilliantly lit Horseshoe Casino. He tried to find what had pulled him away from the semi-zone and suddenly his vision sharpened.

"Shit!"

He straightened abruptly and fumbled his way out of the draperies. His cell phone was still on the bed where he'd tossed it after talking to Simon earlier that evening. He flipped it open and dialed 9-1-1 as he made his way back to the window.

"9-1-1 dispatch. Please state the nature of your emergency."

"You need to send a patrol car to the parking area off Ogden Street across from the Horseshoe Casino. There's a man dumping a body in the far corner. I can't tell whether the person is dead or alive." As Jim watched, the man turned his head, but all Jim could see was a quick flash of skin and the glint of a needle. He sucked in his breath. "Damn it! He's injected something into him. You have to get someone there fast!"

"Sir--"

Jim thumbed his phone off and tossed it on the bed. He pushed back the drapes and grabbed his jeans from the back of the chair where he'd laid them when he'd undressed for bed. Maybe if he hurried he could make it over there before the guy got away. He shoved one foot after the other into his pants and glanced out the window to try to keep track of the perp, but there was no sign of the man. As Jim frantically searched the surrounding area, two patrol cars converged on the parking lot.

The officers moved cautiously, guns drawn, and canvassed the lot. As they approached the corner farthest from Jim, one of the officers gestured. It was obvious that he was saying something, but Jim wasn't about to risk trying to piggyback his hearing in order to find out what it was. They'd found the body.

Almost immediately more cop cars arrived, along with an ambulance. Jim waited, muscles tense, hoping to see the paramedics load the victim onto a gurney and speed away to a hospital for treatment.

"Come on. Come on," he whispered, one palm flat against the window pane, the other resting on his stomach just above the waistband of his boxers.

As the paramedics slowly returned to close up the ambulance and drive away empty, the hand on his belly clenched into a fist and he closed his eyes. He turned away from the window and sighed. It had all happened so fast and he was too far away to do anything, but he still felt the burden of guilt that he hadn't done more. He recognized the feeling for the self-indulgence that it was, but that didn't make it any easier.

He slipped out of the jeans that he'd never fastened and carefully laid them over the single overstuffed chair. He'd done what he could and that hadn't been much. There wasn't a damn thing that he could tell the local police that would make a difference. All his coming forward would do would get him entangled in messy explanations of how he'd seen what he'd seen, something that he simply couldn't risk. Not to mention that he didn't want to field questions about just why he was in Las Vegas in the first place.

He had the uneasy feeling that he'd overlooked something, but pushed it away with a sigh. It was too damned early to be up and he needed to get whatever sleep he could manage in the few hours left before dawn. He pulled the draperies closed, blocking as much of the neon glare as was possible and then slipped under the covers. With luck he might even manage to get a couple of hours of sleep before the nightmares returned.


	9. Chapter 9

A loud knock roused Jim from sleep and he turned his head to stare blearily at the clock radio. He'd only been asleep for an hour. The knocking continued, this time accompanied by a loud voice.

"Mr. Ellison? Las Vegas Police."

He pushed back the bedclothes. Surely they didn't want to talk to him about that bar fight?

"Hold on," he called. When he got to the door he narrowed his eyes. "I need to see a badge before I'm opening the door."

He glanced through the peephole and saw an official looking badge displayed followed by the unfamiliar face of a middle-aged white man. He opened the door and raised his eyebrows as he took in the CSI from the other night standing just behind and to the right of the older man.

"Mr. Ellison? I'm Detective Brass, LVPD. I believe you know Nick Stokes of the Crime Lab." Brass nodded in Nick's direction. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind?"

Jim frowned. "If this is about the fight, I'm not sure that there's anything more that I can tell you."

Brass shook his head. "It's not about that. Mind if we come in?" The corners of his mouth turned up in a half-smile and he cocked his head.

"Sorry. Yeah." Jim stepped back, holding the door open for Brass and Nick to walk through.

He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for an explanation. There were a few moments of silence and Nick cleared his throat.

"Ah. Mr. Ellison? Think you could turn on a light, sir?"

Jim watched him smile nervously and glance around as if he were trying to see. Oh. Damn. He'd forgotten that the lights were out. Great. The last thing he needed was for LVPD to think he was some kind of flake. He reached over and flipped the light switch, blinking in the sudden glare until his vision compensated for the increased illumination.

"Sorry about that." Jim shrugged. "You woke me up. Guess I'm not quite as alert as I could be."

He narrowed his eyes as Nick wandered around the hotel room, examining everything by sight, but avoiding touching anything. Brass stayed put, a slightly bemused expression on his face. Jim recognized the divide and conquer tactic. Make the suspect nervous by forcing him to divide his attention between the two of them and hope that he'd be rattled enough to make a mistake. The question was, why? Jim kept his attention focused firmly on Detective Brass.

"We can certainly understand that." Brass casually put his left hand in his pocket. "Mr. Ellison, we need to ask you for your whereabouts for the last three hours."

"Right here."

"Here? The entire time? I don't suppose you had anyone else in here who could verify that?"

"Sorry. You want to tell me what this is all about?"

Brass wandered over to the window and gestured at the closed draperies. "You mind if I open these?"

"Be my guest."

He pushed the material to both sides until the window was completely uncovered. He stood there alone for a moment before Nick joined him. They conferred in low voices, not meant to carry, but Jim could hear every word clearly. Nick had noticed Jim's handprint on the window and wanted to dust it. Brass replied that they didn't have a search warrant yet.

Brass gazed up Ogden Street in the direction of the parking lot across from the Horseshoe Casino, his expression thoughtful. A frisson of fear coursed through Jim. This wasn't about the fight at all. It was about the phone call to 9-1-1 that he'd made earlier. He should've thought it through and not used his cell phone, but damn it, there hadn't been enough time to run out and find a pay phone.

Whether they thought he had something to do with the crime or whether they thought he was just a witness, in the long run it didn't matter. They'd never believe that he saw what he reported from his hotel room. In fact, it'd be worse if they did believe him.

Brass turned from the window and his gaze fell on the bed. His body stiffened just fractionally when he zeroed in on the cell phone. Not enough for a casual observer to detect anything, but Jim wasn't a casual observer by any respect.

The question now was, should he admit to making the call or should he call their bluff? The problem with bluffing was that if caught out, he'd be perceived as a liar. But they weren't going to believe him if he told the truth, either. A dull throbbing began behind his eyes.

Brass stood next to the bed and glanced at Jim. "I see you have one of those little flip phones. I've been thinking about getting one. I keep forgetting to lock the keys on my phone and every time I reach into my pocket I keep dialing random phone numbers. Makes for an interesting phone bill. Mind if I look at it?"

"Go ahead." For better or worse, he just couldn't bring himself to lie about making that phone call.

Brass flipped open the phone and began pressing buttons, his actions sure and smooth as though he knew exactly what he was doing. He glanced up at Jim and smiled faintly.

"My, my. According to the record stored in your phone, you made a call to 9-1-1 this morning. Would you care to explain what that call was about, Mr. Ellison?"

Nick watched from his vantage point by the window, his posture open and easy. At that moment they both probably considered Jim a witness. Witnesses, though, had alarming tendencies to turn into suspects.

Jim shrugged. "I saw something that looked suspicious, so I called 9-1-1. I can't really say that there were a lot of details, but what I can say is that what I saw didn't look right to me. A few moments after I made my call, a couple of police cars arrived. Didn't seem like there was much else I could contribute, so I went to bed."

Brass exchanged a quick glance with Nick and then looked back at Jim. "I see. You saw something suspicious, made the call, saw the police arrive. And then you, what? Just got in your car and drove back to your hotel and climbed into bed? You didn't think that the police might want to talk to you about what you'd seen? Especially considering that call has led to a murder investigation?"

Jim sighed softly. This was the tricky part. "I didn't get in my car and go anywhere, Detective. I told you exactly what happened. I made the call, saw the police arrive and then went to bed. I didn't know when I made the call that it would be regarding a murder but, murder or not, I still don't see that I have anything of value to add to the investigation." He was being deliberately obtuse and he knew it. Sandburg would be proud of his sudden skills at obfuscation.

"So you didn't drive. Maybe you walked. Maybe you took a taxi." Brass's voice held a note of sarcasm. "The question remains, didn't you think the police officers might want to talk to you about what you'd seen?"

Jim shook his head. "There wasn't and still isn't anything I can add that would help."

He could tell the exact moment when he turned from being a witness into being a suspect. There was a slight sharpening to Brass's expression, a tightening at the corners of his eyes and mouth, an almost imperceptible flaring of his nostrils, and a slight increase in his heartbeat. Nick read the change, too, because his stance shifted subtly to alertness.

Brass cocked his head. "It's funny how people make those kind of assumptions. For instance, sometimes they can tell us a whole lot more than they think and they don't even have to say a word. I don't suppose that you'd allow us to search your room?"

Jim raised his hands and shrugged. "Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide." That earned him a wry look from Nick.

Brass and Nick both pulled on gloves and moved around the small hotel room in a kind of well-rehearsed dance, examining items in earnest. They'd obviously worked together this way many times before.

Nick started with the window. He opened his kit and lifted out a jar of print powder and a long-handled fingerprint brush. Slowly and delicately, he dipped the brush into the powder and began applying it to the glass. The care with which he worked was impressive. Very little of the powder floated into the air, for which Jim was grateful. Too many times to count, he'd been reduced to a fit of sneezing when an inexperienced criminalist overzealously applied powder in an effort to make sure that he didn't miss anything.

As many times as he'd seen it, there was still something fascinating about watching the emergence of latent prints from their former invisibility. Well, invisible to others, Jim thought smugly. He could have told Nick exactly where to dust to bring up fingerprints and where he'd be wasting his time. But Mr. Stokes would just have to find his fingerprints the old-fashioned way.

Nick worked his way around the small room efficiently, obviously giving careful thought to which objects to examine and which might be irrelevant. He lifted Jim's sneakers, examined the bottoms and then set them back down. Next, he moved to the tiny closet and squatted down to reach into the back and pull out Jim's loafers. He did a visual check of the soles and then lightly ran his gloved fingertips over them. He placed them back in the closet and stood up.

"Mr. Ellison?" Nick asked as he checked the upper shelf in the closet. "Are these your only shoes?"

"Yeah. I only brought my sneakers and a pair of loafers on my vacation." He allowed a hint of sarcasm to creep into his voice. "Is that some kind of crime in Las Vegas?"

"No sir." Nick smiled slightly. "You wear what? A size eleven?"

"Ten."

Nick glanced at Brass and shook his head in silent communication. Brass sighed.

"Mr. Ellison, we'd like you to come down to the station and give a formal statement."

Even knowing that would be next, it still managed to get his back up. "Am I being charged with something?"

Brass shook his head. "No. But we'd appreciate your cooperation. This is a murder investigation, after all. I'm sure that you want to do the right thing."

Jim grimaced slightly and nodded once. "As I've said before, I honestly don't think that anything I have to contribute will help you, but of course I'll be happy to cooperate." He gestured at his tee shirt and boxers. "I assume you'll allow me to get dressed?"

"Of course." Brass smiled wryly. "Wouldn't want to have to arrest you for indecent exposure."

He grabbed his jeans and a long sleeved blue pullover, clean boxers, and a pair of socks out of the dresser. He carried his clothes into the bathroom, ostensibly to get cleaned up and for privacy to dress, and turned on the water in the sink, extending his hearing into the other room. His effort was immediately rewarded.

Nick spoke in a low voice. "The footprints we found at the scene had to have been at least a size eleven, if not closer to twelve. And they were distinctive. If I had to guess, I'd say some kind of hybrid hiking boot. Definitely doesn't match either of Ellison's shoes. I don't see any overt evidence that he was there."

"Nick," Brass said, his voice annoyed, "tell me how he could make that call, but not be there? Look out that window and tell me you can even see that parking lot, let alone make out any damn details of what's going on over there right now."

Jim heard the muffled sound of cloth rustling and Nick's soft voice came from just a bit further away. "I can barely make out where the lot is, but that's only 'cause I can see the lights flashing on the patrol cars. Make out details? Nuh-uh, man. No way." More rustling and Jim guessed that he was turning from the window. "But, Captain, I also don't see any evidence that Ellison was anywhere but in this room tonight."

"Shit. Okay. We'll get him down to the Station and see what we can get out of him. If he is just a witness, he probably knows more than he realizes, no matter how many times he claims the opposite. If he's more than a witness, well, at least we'll know where he is for now. Damn, I hate this. Another fucking serial killer. The press is going to be all over us. We'll be lucky if we don't have the FBI breathing down our necks by tomorrow."

"God. Anything but Agent Culpepper again."

Serial killer? Jesus, this was even worse than he'd thought. Jim turned off the water and dressed quickly. He really didn't know anything, but the faster he convinced LVPD of that the faster they could get on with finding the real perp. He opened the bathroom door and turned off the light behind him.

"I'm ready. Let's go." He slipped on his loafers and grabbed his cardkey on his way to the door.

If they were surprised at his sudden urge to head for the police station, they kept it to themselves. When they reached the street, Nick headed to the right and Brass motioned for Jim to follow him as he turned to the left. As he got into the back seat of Brass's sedan, Nick drove past in a dark blue Chevy Tahoe. The ride to the Police Station was made in silence leaving him plenty of time to stew over how to extricate himself from this mess.


	10. Chapter 10

Nick stood quietly behind the two way mirror and studied the man seated at the table in the interrogation room. There was something indefinable about James Ellison. Something that made Nick intuitively want to trust him. Something that made it impossible to believe the guy was a serial killer.

Grissom joined Nick in the observation room. "What've you got?"

"James Ellison. He made the 9-1-1 call that brought the uniforms to the scene. Doesn't deny making the call, but he does deny being there himself. The window of his hotel room does face up Ogden Street."

"Which hotel?"

"Gold Spike."

"The Gold Spike? The crime scene was at the parking lot by the Horseshoe Casino?" Grissom raised his eyebrows. "And this happened at what time?"

"Two a.m."

"So, he's claiming that he could see from his room at the Gold Spike all the way to the parking lot on Casino Center Boulevard in the middle of the night? And he could see clearly enough in the dark to see someone dump a man's body in the far corner of that lot?" There was far more than skepticism in Grissom's voice.

Nick shrugged. "You think I don't know how that sounds?"

Grissom was silent for a minute. "But you believe him?"

"Yeah. Don't ask me why, but I do."

Ellison's head snapped up and he stared at the mirror as if reacting to Nick's declaration. Nick frowned. That couldn't be; there was no way that Ellison could have heard him. He shivered slightly, feeling the intensity of Ellison's gaze, as though the man were able to see right through the glass. But that was impossible. Just as impossible as being able to hear them through the glass or see a crime in the middle of the night from several blocks away.

His eyes widened and he turned, to say what he wasn't sure, when his pager went off. He checked the display and glanced at Grissom. "Greg's got some results for me. You gonna stay here?"

Grissom nodded. "Thought I'd listen to what he has to say to Brass."

"Okay. I'll let you know what we've got." Nick rolled his shoulders to release the tension that had gathered there from standing under the steady glare of Ellison's gaze. There was definitely something different about the guy, he thought as he closed the door behind him.

Warrick sauntered down the hall in his direction. "Hey man, Greg's got something for me on Ellison's prints. You want to come with?"

"Sounds good."

They walked into Greg's lab and waited for him to look up from his microscope.

"Greggo? Whatcha got for us, buddy?"

"I think you'll find this interesting. It's the preliminary results from the AFIS search." Greg held out a printout to Nick.

"Why're you running prints?" Warrick frowned.

Greg shrugged. "I didn't run them, but Manny had to leave on an errand, so I told him that I'd watch for the printout and let Nick know when it came in. And you know I like to build up those you-owe-me points. Never know when they'll come in handy. 'Sides, this is a big case and, like I said, I think you're going to find that interesting." He pointed at the printout.

"Yeah, you could say that," Nick said without looking up.

"What is it?" Warrick glanced from Greg to Nick and accepted the printout when Nick handed it over. "The guy's a cop?"

"Not just a cop," Greg said, that annoying I-know-something-you-don't tone in his voice that irritated the crap out of Nick. "He's a highly decorated detective in the Cascade, Washington Police Department. And, he was a bona fide hero in the Army. A Captain in the Rangers. His helicopter crashed in Peru and he and his entire team were presumed dead. Turns out he was the only survivor and continued on with his mission for 18 months until the Rangers sent a team in to collect the bodies and found him alive. Pretty heavy stuff."

"I remember reading about that," Warrick said slowly. "Man's been through a hell of a lot."

"No way that I buy that he's our guy." Nick shook his head. "I didn't believe it before and I sure as hell don't believe it now, not after reading this."

"How long's he been in Vegas?" Warrick asked.

"According to the statement he made after the fight at the Mandalay Bay, he's been here about a week." Nick raised his eyebrows. "And the first body showed up over a week ago. Before he was even here."

"Before he said he was here." Warrick shrugged. "You know what Grissom would tell you."

Nick nodded and they said in unison, "Follow the evidence."

"Where do you want to start?"

"How about I follow up on the Cascade end. You want to start checking on what he's been doing since he arrived in Vegas?" Nick accepted the AFIS printout back from Warrick.

"If you don't think he had anything to do with the crime, why such a thorough investigation?" Greg frowned.

"Because it doesn't matter what I believe. It only matters what the evidence says." Nick waved the printout at Greg as he followed Warrick out of the lab. "Catch ya later."

They split up and went their separate ways at the door to the observation room. Nick slipped inside and held out the AFIS report to Grissom, who skimmed the page and glanced from Nick to Ellison.

"I don't understand." Grissom frowned.

"Don't look at me. Maybe he thought it wasn't relevant. I was just about to make some phone calls."

Grissom nodded. "Good idea. I'll go talk to Brass. Keep me posted."

Nick walked down the hallway and entered the first deserted lab that he came across. He left the room dark, only switching on the desk lamp, and dialed long distance information, asking to be connected to the Cascade, Washington Police Department. After listening to the standard recording telling him that if his call was an emergency that he should hang up and dial 9-1-1, a live male voice came on the line.

"Cascade Police Department. How may I direct your call?"

"Major Crime Unit, please."

"One moment."

Nick listened to their Muzak equivalent while he waited for the call to be transferred. He wasn't on hold long, for which he was eternally grateful. There was just something fundamentally wrong with the universe when someone out there thought that _Led Zeppelin_ was a prime candidate for Muzak.

"Major Crime, Detective Taggart."

"Detective Taggart, this is Nick Stokes with the Las Vegas PD Crime Lab. I need to speak with the person in charge of the Major Crime Unit, there, please." He grabbed a piece of scratch paper and a pen from the desk.

There was a slight hesitation and Taggart asked, "Las Vegas, did you say?"

"Yes sir." Nick frowned.

"Well son, the Captain of Major Crime is Simon Banks, but I'm afraid that he's off duty right at the moment. I'm currently supervising the night shift. My rank is also Captain. Will I do?"

"Yes sir, Captain Taggart, you'll do just fine. I'm calling to inquire about one of your men--a James Ellison." Nick paused, hoping that Taggart would jump in and provide some information without being prompted.

"What about Detective Ellison?"

Nick smiled wryly. Taggart obviously wasn't biting. "Well, it seems that Detective Ellison was the witness to a murder and we, LVPD that is, would like to get some background information on him."

"He witnessed a murder? And you want to know whether you can trust what he's telling you? Is that it?" His voice sharpened. "Or are you saying that Jim is a suspect in this murder?"

"We're just making inquiries, Captain," Nick soothed. "I'm sure you're familiar with the process."

"You can bet I'm familiar with it." Taggart's voice was firm. "And you listen carefully to me when I tell you that if Jim Ellison told you he saw something, then he _did_ see it. No matter how farfetched it sounds. That man is one of the most honest, most trustworthy individuals that I've ever known and he's the best damn detective that I've ever had the pleasure of working with."

"Yessir," Nick hurried to reassure him. "I'm sure he is, Captain. Just one more question. Can you tell me how long Detective Ellison's been on vacation?"

A long silence met his question. Taggart sighed and when he spoke his voice was sad. "Jim started a thirty day leave one week ago."

"Thirty days?" Nick was surprised. "Isn't that quite a bit of vacation time to take at one time?"

"I didn't say it was a vacation, son," Taggart said softly. "I said he was on leave. And before you ask, Jim requested the leave for personal reasons."

"I see."

"No, I don't think you do, but it doesn't matter. Jim's reasons for his leave are his own and not relevant to your murder investigation."

Nick politely ignored that assertion as he scribbled his notes. "Captain Taggart, I want to thank you for taking the time to speak with me."

"Hold on a minute, there. I need some information from you, son."

"Sir?"

"First, what's your rank and to whom do you report?"

"Um, I'm a CSI 3 and my supervisor is Gil Grissom." Nick blinked.

"And your lab is located..?"

"We're out on North Tropicana Boulevard." He let his voice rise at the end of his statement, begging the question of why?

"Thank you, son. You've been very helpful. A friendly word of advice. If Jim Ellison offers to help with your investigation, you'd be foolish not to accept." Nick heard a soft click as Taggart hung up.

He removed the handset from his ear and stared at it uneasily. He'd been very helpful? What was that supposed to mean? Nick shook his head. Didn't matter. He had the basic facts about Ellison and that's what counted.

 

Brass leaned against his desk and raised his eyebrows. "So, our witness is a highly decorated detective?"

"Officer of the Year in Cascade for two years running." Nick shrugged. Greg had stopped him in the hallway on his way to Brass's office and given him that little tidbit of information courtesy of an internet search. "And get this. When I told this Captain Taggart that Ellison was a possible witness to a murder, he said--and I quote--_if Jim told you he saw something, then he did see it. No matter how farfetched it sounds._ How's that for strange? I swear that I didn't mention any details of the investigation to him."

Grissom removed his glasses and frowned. "Sounds almost as if this sort of discrepancy is a common occurrence with Detective Ellison. And yet your Captain Taggart seems to be saying that we should trust him."

"I don't care if Captain Kangaroo tells me I should trust him," Brass said. "I wouldn't take his word on it either."

"Doesn't the fact that he's a cop change things some?" Nick raised his hands. "I'm not saying that we have to automatically believe his story, but there doesn't seem to be any physical evidence that he was at the crime scene. Can't we give him the benefit of the doubt for now?"

"I don't like it," Brass growled as he pushed himself away from his desk.

"Mind if I talk to him?" Grissom asked.

"Sure, why not. Maybe you can get him to make some sense." Brass led the way out of his office and back to the interrogation room.

Nick entered the observation room alone. With both Brass and Grissom in on the questioning, it might be a bit like being ganged up on if he was in there, too. He was curious to see the whole thing play out and sometimes the obs room gave a better vantage point to see both sides.

Grissom smiled at Ellison and sat down at the table across from him. Brass kept back, standing in the shadows by the door.

"Detective Ellison? I'm Gil Grissom with the Crime Lab." Grissom held out his hand.

Ellison hesitated for a moment before shaking Grissom's hand firmly. "I see you finally got the report back on my fingerprints," he said in a dry voice.

"Yes, we did. And then we called the Police Department in Cascade. I believe that Nick spoke to a Captain Taggart?" At the mention of Taggart's name, Ellison's stoic expression relaxed some. "The Captain was very complimentary in his statements about you."

"Joel's a good man." It was amazing how soft Ellison's voice could be.

"That seems to be his opinion of you, as well." Grissom cocked his head. "He told Nick that we should believe whatever it was that you told us, no matter how odd it might sound. And that if you volunteered to help with the investigation, that we should jump at it. That's a pretty amazing recommendation, even for a fellow cop to make."

A slight flush crept up Ellison's cheeks. Nick wouldn't have thought that anything could faze the man. Was he embarrassed by the praise, or the fact that Taggart had expected him to volunteer to help?

Grissom shifted to sit sideways, crossing his legs and resting one arm along the back of his chair. "I understand that you were an Army Ranger. Participated in Covert Operations? Part of your training was to be suspicious, don't trust the enemy, don't tell the enemy any more than you absolutely have to. Right? Well, we're not the enemy here, Detective. And I think your Captain Taggart would agree with me."

Ellison glanced away and then met Grissom's gaze directly. "I know what Joel expects of me. Under normal circumstances, I would've made an offer of my services." He held up a hand to stall off any comments. "I know offers like that aren't usually accepted, but I would have made it anyway."

Grissom shifted in his chair and leaned forward. "And these aren't what you'd call normal circumstances?"

Ellison shook his head and dropped his gaze to the table. "No. As Joel no doubt told Mr. Stokes, I'm on an extended leave for personal reasons."

Brass chose that moment to step forward. "And just what might those reasons be?"

"Well, they'd be personal, now wouldn't they?" Ellison stared at Brass, his expression bordering on insolent.

"Look, Ellison, I don't care how many honors you've managed to accumulate in your little backwater city up in the Pacific Northwest. You're in Las Vegas now and this is my town. I'm in charge of this homicide investigation and I'm telling you that I expect your complete cooperation. Got it?"

Nick tensed, half expecting to see Ellison explode. The guy struck him as both having a temper and being wound way too tight. It surprised him when Ellison sat back in his chair and chuckled.

"You're good, but I'm afraid I've been on your side of the table one too many times myself not to recognize when I'm being played. Unfortunately, to be really effective, you have to have your facts straight. I could give a shit about my decorations. Anyone I've worked closely with would tell you that. But the big mistake is calling Cascade a backwater, especially when it comes to the crimes we deal with. Why do you think we even have a Major Crime Unit? Trust me when I say it isn't because our Homicide Division can't solve the occasional murder or because Narcotics can't bust two-bit dealers." His expression remained genial, but his eyes were cold.

Brass shrugged. "Hey, it was worth a try." He pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. "Okay, we've all puffed out our chests and rattled our sabres. Think we can dispense with the rest of the macho bullshit?"

"I'm listening," Ellison replied, his voice cautious.

"You say you saw something suspicious and called it in and the evidence says you really weren't at the crime scene."

Ellison nodded slowly.

"Your Captain Taggart says I should accept what you say you saw, take it on faith. Now, I have a hard time doing that." He held up a hand. "But, based on what the CSIs are telling me that the evidence says, I'm inclined to temporarily accept your statement."

"What're your conditions?" Ellison asked.

"I won't ask you where you were when you saw what you say you saw. In return, you give us as much detail in your statement as you can." Brass placed his hands on the table in a take it or leave it gesture.

Of course, he didn't make any guarantees that he wouldn't rescind his temporary acceptance at any time and put Ellison at the top of the suspect list. Ellison was a smart enough detective to know that, too.

Nick waited tensely, his hands clenched at his side, while Ellison stared at Brass for several moments. He found himself whispering soundlessly, "Come on. Come on, man, take the offer."

Ellison turned his head and looked at the mirror as if looking directly at Nick, his expression puzzled. Nick took deep breath and then nodded slowly as he whispered, "Come on, man. You're one of the good guys and I think we're gonna need all the help we can get on this one."

Ellison blinked and turned back to Brass and Grissom. "All right. I'll tell you what I can. But I wasn't lying when I said that I didn't see much in the way of details."

"We'll take whatever you've got." Brass stood up and smiled. "You look like you could use a cup of coffee. Come on. I know where to get the best brew in the building."

Nick stood still while they filed out of the interrogation room, his thoughts whirling. Had Ellison really heard and seen him through the two way mirror? That was impossible. Wasn't it? And yet, that's exactly what appeared to have happened. Did that mean that Ellison might be telling the truth? That he had witnessed the murder from the window of his hotel room at the Gold Spike, as crazy as that sounded?

He was still staring blankly into the interrogation room when Grissom poked his head in and called his name. Several times, from his expression when Nick finally turned his way.

"Nick!"

"Huh?"

"I said, are you coming? Detective Ellison asked about you by name. I think he'd like a familiar face along." Grissom's lips quirked into a wry smile. "I'm not sure he completely trusts Brass. And I seem to confuse most people for some reason. Come on, Nicky. You look like you could use a cup of coffee, too." He held the door open and inclined his head in invitation.


	11. Chapter 11

Jim sipped his coffee and tried to relax. The CSIs were sharp, he'd give them that. And Jim Brass was about as savvy a homicide detective as he'd ever met. They might be working under a small truce, but he would have to be vigilant to hide his sentinel abilities.

It wasn't just the sophisticated toys that the CSIs used to gather and evaluate evidence that gave them their edge. The Cascade Forensics department had many of the same gadgets thanks to a hefty budget. There was no denying that the team in Cascade was damn good, but they didn't seem to have the focus that the LVPD folks had.

It was the people who worked in the Vegas lab that made the difference. Specifically, Gil Grissom and the people who chose to work with him. Everyone whom Jim had met was proficient in his or her job, but more than that, they all seemed to possess an intuitive ability that set them apart from their peers in Cascade. Jim saw the trust that Brass placed in Grissom and, indeed, in the rest of Grissom's team. That kind of trust had to be earned.

He thought about Cassie Wells and shuddered. Wells wouldn't last a week here; she'd just never fit in. Too much ego and too much ambition. But that was a choice that she'd made a long time ago, the choice to believe that doing her own job, and doing it well, wasn't worthwhile in its own right. She honestly thought that if she wasn't a detective then she was nothing, in her own eyes as well as in the eyes of others. She was dead wrong, but she'd never understand that. And she'd never know what it felt like to have the kind of respect that these people received on a daily basis.

Jim shook his head. They'd stopped in a break room, but only so that Brass could get him a coffee mug. Then they'd descended on a young lab tech--Greg Something-or-other--and Brass had appropriated the poor kid's coffee pot. Greg had protested, but faced with such overwhelming seniority, had finally capitulated gracefully. He'd even gone so far as to offer to brew another pot for them.

Of course, there'd been an ulterior motive behind Brass's coffee offer. Not only did Greg brew the best coffee in the Lab, but he was, among his other talents, the resident DNA expert on the night shift. When Brass quietly asked if Jim minded if they took a DNA sample, Jim knew that there was no way that he could refuse without looking like he wasn't cooperating with their investigation. In truth, he didn't mind--and he said so--but it did amuse him that Brass was still testing him.

He was unsure just what Brass wanted to compare his DNA to, but he was sure that he wouldn't be able to use it to tie Jim to either the parking lot or to the murder victim. It was only a matter of chance that Jim hadn't started his search for Sandburg at the older casinos such as the Horseshoe. Well, chance and the fact that he'd been pretty sure that Sandburg would choose to see the mega-casinos first. If he had, there'd be some possibility that he'd left something of himself behind that could be misconstrued.

The four of them sat sipping coffee and waiting for Greg's gadget to perform its magic. They all glanced at the entrance when a tall young woman stopped in the doorway. She was almost Nick's height, with shoulder length brown hair and an intense expression and she carried a small clear plastic evidence bag containing a glass vial. She seemed taken aback to see them all crowding into the small lab space.

"Sara?" Grissom said. "Weren't you working on that jewelry store robbery?"

"Yeah. I was. I mean I am." She gestured at everyone. "Having a party? 'Cause I don't recall getting the memo." She smiled slightly.

"No party. Just waiting for some DNA results," Brass said from where he stood leaning against the far table.

"Is this about that possible serial case? Because if it is? I ought to be in on whatever's going on here. That was my case. Well, mine and Warrick's. Until you took it away from us." Sara frowned at Grissom.

Grissom exchanged a quick, slightly appalled look with Brass and rose to his feet. "Sara? Is there something you need from Greg?" His voice held a hint of steel underneath the calm tone.

"Yes, there is," Sara said as she stepped into the lab. "I need you to run this for me." She held up the evidence bag by the top edge and shook it back and forth slightly, as if trying to entice him with it.

"Whatcha got?" Greg asked.

Jim felt his lips twitch and he fought not to smile as Greg eagerly reached for the bag. The eager puppy look on his face reminded him of Sandburg when he was in the throes of unrequited lust and the urge to smile quickly palled. When was the last time he'd seen that goofy look on Sandburg's face? A very long time ago, he thought. What did that mean?

"I found this liquid smeared on the door of the jewelry store. It's got a funny gel-like consistency and I know it's not an acid because it didn't eat away any of the metal that it was on. I don't know if it means anything, but I want it analyzed. Just in case." Sara smiled slightly.

Greg nodded, already snapping on gloves and readying his equipment. "No problemo. I'll just run it through the mass spectrometer and see what we've got."

"Fine." Grissom narrowed his eyes. "Sara, I'd like to speak to you in the hall for a moment, please." She gave him a jerky nod and preceded him out of the lab, with Grissom carefully closing the door behind them.

Their interaction held all of the earmarks of a classic dressing down by the boss. Jim's hearing kicked in and he tried not to wince as he heard Grissom demand to know what she thought she was doing.

 

_"Grissom," she began and then sighed. "You're deliberately excluding me and it isn't fair."_

_"I am not deliberately excluding you, Sara. And no one said life was fair."_

_"This is because of the Strip Strangler case, isn't it? You were pissed off about my volunteering to work with the FBI and act as bait and now you're punishing me by keeping me off of this case."_

_"Sara..." Grissom's voice trailed off and they were silent for a moment. _Jim heard the sound of footsteps as someone walked past them down the hall._ "I'm not punishing you. There'll be plenty of work to go around on this one. You've got to stop taking this personally."_

 

Jim pulled in his hearing, attempting to give them the privacy that they weren't aware they lacked. He didn't bother glancing out in the hallway when Grissom returned alone.

The efficiency and care with which Greg worked impressed Jim. This was a thoroughly professional bunch. And thoroughly dangerous, when it came to keeping his sentinel abilities a secret. He shifted uneasily in his chair, wondering when they'd get the results of the DNA test. The sooner he was allowed to make his official statement and get out of there, the better he'd like it.

A nearly inaudible chitter from the printer drew his attention and a few seconds later a printout appeared. Nick reached for it and skimmed the information on the page. He smiled as he passed it to Grissom. Grissom, in turn, read it and handed it off to Brass.

"Well, Detective Ellison," Brass said as he held up the printout, "looks like the final confirmation that you weren't involved as anything but a witness is in."

Jim nodded. "Then I guess we can get on with this, huh?" He glanced at his watch. "Not that it hasn't been fascinating meeting all of you, but I've been here for almost six hours now. I'd like to be able to get some sleep sometime today."

Brass shrugged. "Sorry for that, but you know how it is."

"I do. That wasn't an accusation. I'm just kind of tired, you know?"

Grissom stood. "Why don't we do this in one of the conference rooms? I'm sure that would be more comfortable than the interrogation room."

Jim rose to his feet, as well. "Thanks. Listen, call me Jim. I'm certainly not going to insist on formality at this point."

"Well, _Jim,_" said Brass, "let's get this done and let you be on your way."

It was amazing just how long it still took after they finally settled in the conference room. Jim repeated what he'd seen, several times in fact, going over it from every angle that he could think of. They tried various techniques to see if he could recall any more details, but none of them were effective. He knew, deep in his gut, that Sandburg would have been able to pry every last little detail out of him, even details that he'd swear he didn't have. But Sandburg wasn't there and none of them were in his league when it came to finessing the sentinel inside Jim.

In the end, they were all resigned to the fact that Jim had not only told them the truth, but he'd told himself the truth--he really didn't know anything more than what he'd said on his 9-1-1 call. Even the fact that for a moment the perp had turned into the light and had been partially illuminated didn't do them any good. Jim hadn't seen enough to be able to describe him with any level of confidence. The best he could do was give them a general impression, which wouldn't hold up as any kind of identification. The fleeting glimpse of the perp's expression had left Jim with an impression of sadness. As if he didn't want to be there, doing what he was doing. Since Jim couldn't provide details of the perp's features, his impressions were worse than useless.

Jim slouched wearily in his chair. Exhaustion was setting in. Hopefully, they'd decide that there wasn't any more blood to squeeze from this turnip and let him go soon. It might not be his bed at the loft, but he could almost hear the bed in his hotel room singing him a siren's song. He took a deep breath, ready to suggest that they were done, and sat bolt upright at the familiar scent of cigars. There was no way in hell that the person his senses told him was approaching was really there.

"Jim?" Nick asked. "Something wrong?"

"You suddenly think of something else that might help?" Brass asked and raised his eyebrows.

He shook his head and stared at the door. The others were startled when it opened.

"Warrick?" Grissom frowned.

"Hey Griss. I've got someone who insists on seeing your guy here." Warrick held the door open wide and allowed the man accompanying him to enter the conference room.

"Jim."

"Simon? What are you doing here?" Jim searched Simon's grim face and felt the blood drain from his own even as his heart lodged in his throat. His voice sank to a whisper. "No."

"Jim." The regret in Simon's voice cut more sharply than any knife. "I received two calls early this morning. One was from Joel, letting me know that he'd just hung up from talking to the Las Vegas PD about you."

"And the second call?" Jim gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Simon sighed. "About thirty minutes later I got a call from a CSI here in Las Vegas, a Catherine Willows."

Out of the corner of his eye Jim saw Nick and Grissom exchange puzzled looks and Grissom's eyes widened slightly. They all seemed frozen by the power of whatever it was that was happening between Simon and him. Jim shook his head. This was a mistake--whatever it was--definitely a mistake.

"Jim," Simon said, his voice soft, "there was an accident, a car accident, on the road up to Hoover Dam. Rental car, single male occupant. Car went off the road and down a steep embankment. The driver was pronounced dead at the scene."

"No." Jim swallowed hard. "This isn't happening. I refuse to believe that I could lose him like this. It wasn't him, Simon. They've made a mistake."

Even as he said the desperate words, he thought back to all of the instances during the course of the morning when he'd been impressed with the Crime Lab employees and the little voice in the back of his head whispered that they wouldn't make that kind of mistake. He blinked back the hot tears that filled his eyes.

It was Brass who forced them to remember that they weren't alone in the room. He stood up and immediately drew everyone's attention. "Sorry. I didn't catch your name."

Simon gave a start and blinked. "I'm Captain Simon Banks. I head up the Major Crime Unit of the Cascade PD. Jim's one of my detectives."

Brass held out his hand. "Captain Jim Brass, LVPD Homicide Division. Detective Ellison witnessed a murder this morning and he's just been giving us a statement about what he saw."

"I'm aware of that. Captain Taggart called me at home as soon as he got off the phone with your Mr. Stokes." Simon waved a hand as if that wasn't important.

Their exchange had an unreal quality to it. Jim couldn't rouse any interest in what Simon knew or didn't know about why he was there. His mind was racing, unable to focus on anything beyond his denial of what Simon was trying to tell him.

"So, just what brings you all the way to Las Vegas, Captain? Who was it that Catherine called you about?" Brass asked, his voice polite.

Simon turned his full attention on Jim. "It's Blair, Jim. They found his observer ID on him."

"No!" Jim's voice was hoarse. He wanted to shout, to rant and rave and destroy everything in the room, but he felt oddly enervated. His knees gave way and he slid down onto his chair, staring up at Simon blankly.

"I'm sorry." Simon pushed his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes with the thumb and fingers of his right hand. "I couldn't let them tell you without being here."

"Warrick?" Grissom frowned. "Where's Catherine?"

"She's in with the Doc," he replied softly. "Captain Banks arrived after she'd already gone in and she asked me to bring him down, but he wanted to see Detective Ellison first. I let Cath know I was bringing him here. She'll join us in a few minutes."

"Okay." Grissom turned to Simon and held out his hand. "Captain Banks? I'm Gil Grissom of the Crime Lab. Nick, Warrick and Catherine work for me."

Simon shook his hand. "You have good people, Mr. Grissom. It's not an easy thing to hear that you've lost one of your own, but your Ms. Willows handled the call with as much delicacy and tact as one could hope for."

"Thank you. I'll pass that along to her." Grissom cocked his head. "I'm afraid that we're a bit behind here. I haven't had a chance to catch up with Catherine to find out about her case." He raised his eyebrows.

"She called me because the victim in the car accident was carrying a civilian observer's pass for the Cascade Police Department. Specifically, it was an observer's pass for Major Crime. As such, my name was on it. I gather that it was the only piece of identification on the...body." Simon swallowed heavily. "The pass was issued to Blair Sandburg. He's been working as Jim's unofficial partner for the past couple of years." He closed his eyes and placed a trembling hand over his mouth.

Grissom glanced at Jim and turned to Brass. "Catherine hasn't been part of our investigation. She wouldn't have known about Detective Ellison or that he's here right now."

Brass nodded. "Let me express my condolences, Captain, Detective. It's never easy losing a man."

Simon shook his head. "Sandburg was more than just one of my men. He was a good friend." His glanced around the room and let his gaze come to rest on Jim. "He and Jim were closer than most brothers."

"It's not true," Jim whispered. "He's not gone. I'd know it, Simon. I'd _know_ it."

"Jim--"

"I'm telling you, Simon, it's a mistake."

A short rap on the door interrupted them. The tall blonde from the investigation at the Mandalay Bay entered and looked around the room, then walked over to Simon.

"Captain Banks?"

"Yes. Catherine Willows?" Simon stuck out his hand. "I appreciate your taking the time to contact me directly and not just leave a message with the duty clerk."

"I thought you'd rather be woken up and told directly than hear it in a message."

"You thought right. Blair was a friend as well as a member of my department, albeit an unofficial member. He was Jim's partner."

"Detective Ellison?" Jim met her gaze and flinched from the sympathy he saw there. "I'm so sorry. If I'd had any idea, well, I would have contacted you."

Jim nodded, unable to come up with anything to say that would sound rational.

Catherine hesitated and glanced back at Simon. "I hate to bring this up, but the bo--, um, we're ready for you to identify, uh, him."

Simon nodded and gestured for her to lead the way.

Jim stood. "I'm coming with you."

"Jim--"

"Detective Ellison," Catherine interrupted, "it might be best if you let Captain Banks make the identification. I'm afraid that there was quite a bit of...damage to his face."

Jim shuddered, but shook his head. "I appreciate what you're trying to say, but I have to do this." He met Simon's gaze and kept his voice firm. "I'm going with you."

Simon sighed. "All right, Jim. I guess I can't blame you. Come on then. Let's get this over with."

 

 

Catherine paused at the door to the morgue and Jim could easily read the conflicting emotions on her face. This had to be one of the toughest parts of their jobs. He steeled himself for the ordeal to come and nodded at her. He was as ready as he could possibly be, though that had to be the biggest lie he'd ever tell himself. No matter how long he was given, he'd never be prepared for what he was about to see.

She pushed open the door. The air inside the room was cold--colder even than the air conditioned rooms in the rest of the Lab--and the lighting subdued, as if to pay homage to the departed souls that rested there temporarily, awaiting disposition to their final earthly home.

Jim shivered in the chill air. Sandburg hated to be cold. The thought that his friend, his Sandburg, could be lying on one of those cold metal slabs, naked but for the thin sheet that would cover him, was like a sucker punch to his gut.

Catherine walked over to one of the heavy metal doors that protected the dead from exposure to the living. She glanced over her shoulder at them and grabbed the handle. The door unsealed with a quiet whoosh. Jim stared down at the floor as she pulled on the metal tongue and smoothly slid the tray out into the room.

His breath hitched as he forced himself to look at the shroud-covered body that lay waiting to be exposed to their prying eyes. His heart beat frantically in denial that he was about to identify Sandburg's--Blair's!--body on that slab, while his mind sadly tried to prepare for the worst.

Catherine grasped the corner of the sheet. "Are you sure that you want to do this? I have to tell you that his face sustained extensive damage. So much so that I didn't feel completely comfortable making even the preliminary identification."

Jim's throat worked and he nodded mutely, unwilling to allow any sound to escape for fear of losing even his tenuous control over his emotions. She slowly slid the sheet down, exposing the head and chest. His eyes shied away from the head, not ready to see the worst, though his mind immediately tried to superimpose Blair's familiar features over the mangled face of the corpse. When what he was seeing finally registered to his dulled senses, his iron control disappeared and his gorge rose. His sudden distress must have shown on his face because Catherine gave him the answer without his having to ask the question.

"It's down the hall, second door to the right."

He rushed out as if the very hounds of hell were pursuing him and just managed to get to the bathroom and bang into one of the stalls before he lost the contents of his stomach. He bent over the toilet, heaving and heaving until tears flowed and there was nothing left to come up and then added a few dry heaves for good measure. He slowly straightened and made his way on shaky legs to the sink.

The water was cool on his hot skin and he alternated splashing his face and rinsing his mouth. He was still finding comfort in the water when Simon entered the bathroom. Jim hadn't bothered to try to follow whatever conversation that Simon had had with Catherine after he'd made his somewhat inglorious exit. Whatever they'd talked about was of no concern to Jim; he knew the truth.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Jim," Simon said softly. "Hell, I wish that I hadn't had to see it. I sure as hell don't want to remember the kid like that." He shook his head.

Jim stared at him, ignoring the water dripping from his face and soaking into his tee shirt. He'd have bet everything that Simon would have seen it. Surely he knew Sandburg well enough to know?

"Simon, that wasn't Blair."

"What?" Simon blinked. "Look, Jim, I know you don't want to believe it. But the body's the right height and weight, the hair's right. I know the face...well, that doesn't matter. Of course we'll have to confirm with dental records because his hands sustained damage and they couldn't take fingerprints, but you need to face the facts. That was Sandburg."

Jim shook his head. "No. It wasn't. The dental records will back me up, but I can prove it to you, probably in multiple ways if I have to, but in one very obvious way just based on what we were shown of his chest."

"Huh? What're you talking about?" A dawning hope replaced the bleak look in Simon's eyes.

"There was no chest hair on the body we were shown. Blair has quite a bit of hair, from the collarbone down. Trust me on this. I had to wrap his chest in gauze first before taping him up when he cracked his ribs, because he refused to shave and it'd hurt too much when he pulled off the tape." Jim snorted softly at Simon's raised eyebrow. "Too much information?"

"Let's just say this is one time that I'm grateful for that." His eyes filled and he turned away to rub at them. "It's really not Sandburg?"

"It really isn't."

"Thank God." Simon's expression turned grim. "But if that isn't Sandburg, then who is he and why did he have Sandburg's ID?"

"I don't know," Jim replied. He narrowed his eyes. "But I'm sure as hell going to find out."

"We're, Jim. _We're_ sure as hell going to find out."

"You got that right."

"And Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth? I'm sorry. I should know better by now when it comes to trusting your instincts about anything to do with Sandburg."

Jim simply nodded.


	12. Chapter 12

Grissom skimmed through the case file sitting open on his desk. Sara's work was as thorough as he'd expected. And if it wasn't quite as high profile as this current murder case threatened to become, she'd still managed to find the evidence that pointed to the perpetrator. If he ignored her tendency to run either hot or cold about a case, then he had nothing but praise for the job she'd done.

Problem was, he couldn't ignore her tendencies for much longer without having another talk with her. There was no middle ground when it came to Sara. She either over-identified with the victim or she got too caught up in the technical aspect of solving the puzzle and completely ignored the human realities of the crime. She needed to find more of a balance in her approach to her work, as well as in her life, or she'd find herself burnt out before too much longer.

He flipped through the report, verifying that all of the bases had been crossed and signed his name on the last page. He could deal with Sara's issues with her job. He'd done it before and while he wasn't thrilled with the personnel aspects of being a supervisor, he had good people working for him who deserved every benefit that he could give them. It wasn't her behavior on the job that was the problem. It was the increasingly frequent encroachment of her personal life onto her work life that made him uneasy.

It had started subtly and that was the only reason he wasn't kicking himself for not noticing it sooner. But the invitations to go out for breakfast, which turned out to be for him only and not the entire group. The suggestions--via look and double entendres--that she was interested in pursuing a more intimate relationship with him. The outright flirting while they were alone at crime scenes. All of these things were getting harder and harder to brush off.

He sighed softly. Sara was a damn good CSI. He didn't want to lose her. He had to find a gentle way to let her know that he wasn't interested in her like that, though he feared that no matter how he said it that she'd misconstrue it as one extreme or the other. She needed to get the message soon. Her unhealthy competition with the others on the team, without their being aware of it, was getting out of hand.

Just what the hell was he going to say to her? He was going to have to address her prickly attitude lately with Nick and that was sure to bring up an accusation of favoritism, like she'd made when he'd left Warrick in charge. His eyes widened slightly. Had he been reading this all wrong? Was she interested in Nick or Warrick? And the rest of it was, what? A smoke screen of some sort? Or was she as confused as he was?

The pressure of a headache pulsed behind his eyes. While he had very little problem delving into human behavior and solving the puzzles that strangers left behind, he tended to choose poorly when it came to deciphering the motivations of those close to him. Add that stress to the pressures that were already starting to build around the possibility that they really did have another serial killer out there somewhere and maybe it was time to get a refill of his migraine medicine.

Sara's closed case went on top of a short stack of others ready for processing and he lounged back in his chair. Strange night, even compared to most nights. To have the detective from Washington involved in two different cases on the same night defied belief.

Grissom frowned as he considered Jim Ellison. Nick had described meeting Ellison while investigating the brawl at the Mandalay Bay. He'd talked about how everyone agreed that Ellison had merely been trying to keep a nasty fight from turning even uglier.

But what had struck Grissom was the word Nick had used to describe him. When asked for his impression of Ellison, Nick had hesitated, as if searching for the right word, and finally said, "haunted." Nicky had called it exactly right.

There was a curious heaviness in the air as he waited for Catherine to return with the two gentlemen from Cascade. The trip to the morgue was never an easy one, and when it was to identify a fellow officer--no matter that the young man was technically a civilian--it was doubly hard. Grissom had no doubt that the haunted look that Ellison wore and his vacation in Vegas were connected with the body currently awaiting proper identification.

Nick knocked on the door frame. "Hey Griss. They're not back from IDing the body yet?"

"Not yet." He picked up a pen and slowly flipped it end over end. "I can't imagine this is very easy for either of them."

"Yeah. You know all that stuff about Ellison being such a decorated cop?"

Grissom nodded.

"Well, get this. Greg and I did some more checking and it's true. Ellison does have several commendations and he was named Policeman of the Year two years in a row."

"I sense a but at the end of that sentence." He raised his eyebrows.

Nick grinned. "But, while the records we could access show that he was a good detective before he teamed up with Sandburg, his results literally went through the roof after his observer came on board."

"Really." Grissom pursed his lips. "And your theory is..."

"Sandburg gave him an edge somehow." Nick shrugged. "In fact, the stats for the entire Major Crime Unit went up after Sandburg started observing, but not nearly as much as Ellison's did."

"What, exactly, was Sandburg observing?" Grissom frowned. "And what kind of time frame are we talking about?"

"The story we pieced together is that Sandburg was observing the police department as a study for his doctoral dissertation. Technically his observers pass should have expired after 90 days. It's going on three years now."

"Doctoral dissertation? What field?"

"Anthropology." Nick smiled. "He was supposed to be writing about the police department as a modern closed society."

"Supposed to be? You make it sound like that isn't what he was doing."

"Well, you tell me. In the two plus years that he rode with Detective Ellison, he had yet to turn in a single page to his committee that related to his dissertation. He put them off time and again, even lost a couple of grants because of it."

Grissom shook his head and frowned. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would he go to all that trouble, put himself in potentially dangerous situations for such a long period of time, if he wasn't going to actually write about it? Something isn't right, there."

Nick held up his hands. "That's what I thought, but I guess it's really kind of moot, isn't it? I mean, the guy's dead. It's a real pity, 'cause from the way things read he must really have been something. He must've been a huge asset to the Cascade PD. Especially considering they were getting him for free."

Grissom sat back in his chair and grimaced. He hated it when the odd pieces of a puzzle didn't fit neatly. This, along with the strange reactions he'd been noticing from Ellison all evening, felt like one hell of an odd piece. Unfortunately, he didn't believe that he'd have much of an opportunity to get to the bottom of it.

Grissom's cell phone rang and he flipped it open. "Grissom." He frowned and said, "Say that again." When he flipped the phone shut he stared up at Nick.

"Griss? What is it? Is something wrong?" Nick took a half step forward only to stop when Grissom shook his head.

"That was Catherine. It seems that our corpse isn't Blair Sandburg after all. Detective Ellison was positive about the mis-identification."

"But--"

"I don't know any more than that, Nick. Catherine's taking them to Brass's office." He rose to his feet and walked around his desk. "Come on."

 

 

 

The four of them were already there and waiting for Grissom and Nick by the time they arrived. Grim determination had replaced the pinched expressions on the faces of Ellison and Banks. Ellison was still pale, fine lines around his mouth and his red rimmed eyes spoke of a recent upset, and he sat with his arms crossed over his chest.

Banks, on the other hand, appeared far more in control. The gray tinge to his complexion was gone, as though the good news they'd received had restored something vital inside. There was a fierce gleam in his eyes that made Grissom think of a commander ready to do battle.

Whatever was happening here, it was obvious that these two men were expecting to be part of it. While Grissom wasn't terribly fond of cross-jurisdictional investigations, in this case it might work to all of their benefit. Especially if they could keep Ellison and Brass from butting heads. Jim Brass wasn't usually an unreasonable man, but this wasn't anything like an usual situation.

"Glad you could make it," Brass said, his voice dry. "Looks like we've got more of a mystery on our hands than we'd originally thought."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't O'Riley be here? I thought he was handling the investigation of the car crash."

Brass shrugged. "He's turned it over to me. At my request, though he didn't put up much of an argument. Frankly, I think he was more than happy to give me the headache." He held up his hands to halt the protest that Ellison looked ready to make. "I'm referring to the paperwork that I'm going to have to maintain in order to deal with the dual investigation between our two departments."

Banks snorted softly and he seemed to be fighting to maintain his sober expression, something made even more difficult by the pointed glare sent his way by Ellison. There was a familiar sense of ease between the two men, reminding Grissom of the way his own team worked together. It was a familiarity that included respect and trust.

"So, we're going to be allowed in, then?" Banks asked. "I want to be clear on this."

Brass nodded, all hint of joking gone. "My proposal is that we work as a team. I hope you understand what I mean when I say that a team can only have one leader. And because this is happening in my jurisdiction, that means I'm it."

Banks clamped a hand on Ellison's shoulder, keeping him quiet and in his seat. "Of course. So long as this isn't going to be a situation where we're only given minimal information and pushed to the side."

Brass shook his head. "No. Captain Banks, you and Detective Ellison are the most valuable assets we have when it comes to understanding anything about our possible victim. We--I--value your input and opinions. I promise that you'll be treated like any other member of the team."

"Good." Ellison's voice was soft, his tone tight. "In that case, you can stop using the term possible when referring to Sandburg as a victim. There's no way in hell that he'd offer up his observer's badge voluntarily. He's in trouble. I believe that he's been missing for a few weeks now."

"What?" Nick blurted out the question and looked slightly abashed.

"It's a valid question," Grissom said and turned to wink at Nick, who seemed almost more taken aback by that than by his inadvertent interruption. Which was just the reaction that Grissom was hoping for; the last thing he needed was Nick watching his step around Banks and Ellison because he felt intimidated by their records.

Brass raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Yeah, it is. So, Detective Ellison, you want to elaborate on what you mean by that?"

Ellison nodded and haltingly told them about why he'd come to Las Vegas in the first place. After he'd described the encounter he'd had with Sandburg's mother, Catherine interrupted.

"Wait a minute. You're not seriously telling me that when she was told that her son hadn't been heard from for almost two weeks that she didn't bat an eye? That she wasn't at all concerned? She just headed on out for her flight and that was that?" The tone of her voice was incredulous. "What kind of mother could do that?"

"Believe me, I've often wondered that about Naomi, myself," Ellison muttered half under his breath.

"You have to understand their relationship. I have no doubt that Naomi Sandburg loves her son dearly," Banks said, "but she has a very unique world view. One I'd venture to say that Blair understands, but doesn't always completely share. She wasn't worried about Blair because wandering off somewhere without telling anyone where she was going and when she'd return is what she'd do. She truly doesn't understand that her son isn't exactly like her, but the Blair Sandburg we know is far more responsible than that."

Ellison threw a surprised look at Banks before wiping the expression from his face. Grissom frowned slightly. Just what part of that little explanation had caused that reaction? Was it important or just something private between the two men?

"Still," Catherine said and shrugged. "I guess if it works for them. I can't say as I believe that that's a very healthy relationship for a mother and child to have."

Grissom silently agreed with her. What they needed, though, was the reason why Ellison believed that his partner had come to Las Vegas.

"Okay," he said, "putting aside the family psychology for the moment, something brought you here in search of Mr. Sandburg. What was it?"

Ellison nodded. "I was able to track his flight here from Albuquerque. He was supposed to have a twelve hour layover, but he never got on the flight to Cascade. In fact, he didn't get on any flight to anywhere. I was, uh, able to track his luggage to one of the self-serve lockers at the airport. You know, the temporary ones that people use to store their bags while waiting through those interminable times between planes that are too long to drag around heavy carryons but too short to get a hotel room for?"

Grissom glanced at Brass and frowned. "I thought McLaren did away with all of those because of the security risk."

He shrugged. "They still have a few of them. It can be damn hard to find one available, though." He turned to Ellison and narrowed his eyes. "How in the world did you manage to track his luggage to a locker? And how did you get it out without the key?"

Ellison squirmed in his chair and exchanged an enigmatic glance with his captain. Banks raised an eyebrow and sighed. His tone was resigned when he spoke, as if prepared for an argument.

"We need to set some ground rules about certain things," Banks said.

"The ground rules are you tell us everything you know and how you know it." Brass frowned. "I don't like being lied to."

"Let's hear them out, Jim." Grissom held Brass's gaze for a moment and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

"I know I'm going to regret this. All right. We'll listen to what they have to say first."

"Thank you." Banks's expression was grave. "I'm sure that you've done some checking up on us by now and you know what kind of solve rate Jim has. You should also understand that the rate of his solved investigations that are successfully prosecuted is nearly as high."

Banks waited for them to digest the implications of what he'd just said. Out of the corner of his eye Grissom could see Nick nodding in agreement. It was obvious that Brass had run the same kind of investigation of the two men as Nick and Greg had done, because he also looked thoughtful. He knew Catherine didn't have a clue, but he smiled to himself as he watched her don what she'd once described to him as her bluffing-with-the-boys expression.

Brass said, "So, you're telling us that Ellison's results can be trusted."

"More than that," Banks replied flatly. "I'm telling you that his results are obtained legally, even if he's not always able to describe exactly how he manages to come to some of his conclusions."

"Wait a minute," Catherine said, her eyes wide. "You're not claiming that Detective Ellison's a psychic or something like that, are you?"

"I've never described my abilities as psychic," Ellison replied.

Grissom frowned. That was a non-answer if he'd ever heard one. He was about to ask a pointed question when Nick interjected with his own.

"You haven't, but others have?" Nick raised an eyebrow.

Ellison exchanged another look with Banks and then nodded. "Yes, I guess you could say that."

"But you don't describe yourself that way?" Grissom persisted, narrowing his eyes and watching the detective closely.

Ellison shook his head. "I've never claimed to be psychic, no." He snorted. "Can you imagine the kind of shit any cop would take from everyone in the police department if they publicly claimed to be a psychic? I can hear the break room jokes now."

The others smiled and nodded, but something about the exchange bothered Grissom and he knew that he'd probably end up chewing over it later. Most likely when he was trying to sleep.

Brass took a deep breath. "Say we buy this story--sorry, non-story--of yours? What are your ground rules?"

"If Jim tells you he knows something, don't argue with him. Don't question how he knows. Check it out for yourself if you can, or duck if he tells you to duck. Trust me when I say that that last just might save your life." He smiled a bit grimly. "At least it has for me on more than one occasion."

There was a long silence and Brass said, "I guess I can go with this for now." He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. "But I have to tell you that I reserve the right to change my mind later."

"Fair enough." Banks nodded.

"So, you were saying that you traced the locker where his luggage is stored. Did you remove said luggage?" Grissom wondered if Brass was aware that he'd just slipped into his form of interrogation-speak.

Ellison shook his head. "I didn't even try. I've checked on the locker every day since I found it, hoping that Sandburg would show up to claim his stuff. Or, if it didn't happen while I was waiting, that I'd find that he'd already been there and have some way of tracing him. Unfortunately, that hasn't happened."

"What's the locker number?"

"14732."

Brass held up his hand and grabbed the telephone. Grissom was surprised to hear him ask for Judge Andrews. Brass explained the situation and asked for a special warrant for the locker. He wrangled with the Judge for a few minutes, said thank you, and hung up.

"Judge Andrews has agreed to issue a very limited warrant covering only locker 14732. You'd better be right about this, Detective Ellison." The corners of his lips turned up in a wry smile and he shrugged.

Catherine rose to her feet. "I'll pick up the warrant and meet you at the airport." She looked at Grissom for confirmation and he nodded.

"Take Nick with you." Grissom glanced at Nick, pleased to see only agreement.

"You got it." Catherine touched Nick on the arm as they left the room. "Looks like it's you and me, Nicky. Let's go see a judge about a paper."

"See you all at the airport." Nick flashed a grin and left in Catherine's wake.

Grissom turned back to Ellison and cocked his head. "I'm curious about something. You tracked the luggage to a locker, which you were quasi-staking out. You obviously weren't really expecting anyone to come back and pick it up or you would have been more aggressive about it. What else were you doing to find your friend?"

Ellison ran his hand over the unbruised side of his face. "Sandburg had twelve hours to kill waiting for his flight. Since he ditched his luggage, I figured he might've decided to take a quick trip to see some of the mega-casinos on the Strip. We had a running joke that we were going to come here on vacation, but my work always seemed to get in the way. I knew he wanted to see some of the fancier places, so that's where I started."

"What were you doing in the _Race and Sports Book_ at the Mandalay Bay?" He was surprised to see a slight flush on Ellison's cheeks.

"Sandburg has a cousin who's a bookie." He looked at Banks and gave a half-shrug. "You remember Robert? It just felt right to me that he might check out the action at the sports casinos. I was showing his picture around, asking if anyone remembered seeing him. The Mandalay was next on my list."

"Any luck?" Brass folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward.

Ellison shook his head. "No. But then, I haven't had the chance to get very far in my investigation."

It was interesting that Banks frowned at that. He watched as the Captain took a good look at his detective and obviously didn't like what he was seeing.

"Still having the dreams?" Banks asked softly.

Ellison shut his eyes and clenched his fists, pressing them against the top of his thighs. "Yeah." He swallowed and shot a look of pure misery at Banks. "They're getting worse."

"Dreams?" Grissom wasn't convinced that the psychic thing was for real, but after meeting Morris Pearson during the Nigel Crane case, he wasn't ready to completely rule it out, either. "What dreams?"

Ellison flashed him a look that proclaimed loud and clear _you really don't want to know_, but he sighed and said, "Nightmares really. They're always about the same place. I find myself in some laboratory, like a medical lab? There are people in individual rooms like medical isolation rooms. I get the feeling that they're being held against their will, but I'm not sure. I hear..." His voice trailed off and Grissom watched as he visibly pulled himself together.

"Jim--"

"No, Simon. It's all right." Ellison scrubbed at his face. "I hear Blair. He's in pain. Screaming. Most of it's incoherent nonsense, but every once in a while he'll call out my name."

"Damn." Brass's exclamation was heartfelt.

"Yeah." Ellison sighed. "Anyway, in the dream I finally find the room where he's being held. The door's locked and I can't get in. He's strapped down to something. Some guy in a lab coat, carrying a syringe full of something, approaches him and Blair struggles like he's trying to get away. I start yelling and pounding on the door, trying to get the guy's attention, make him stop, but it's like they can't hear me. He injects whatever it is into Blair. I usually wake up about then."

"Usually?" Grissom asked. No wonder he looked like run over dog shit on a hot day. He'd look like that too if he was having those kind of dreams.

"Sometimes I get to see what happens to Sandburg after the injection." The dead tone in his voice told Grissom all he wanted to know about that aspect of his nightmare.

Banks placed his hand on Ellison's shoulder and squeezed once. "And they're getting worse?"

He nodded. "Blair seems more...fragile in the dreams now. Less together. He's still in pain, but he makes less noise. Sometimes all he does is whimper." Ellison closed his eyes. "I hate trying to sleep."

"Jesus, Jim." Banks's voice was soft.

Ellison shook his head and stood up. "Are we doing this or what?"

Brass nodded. "Let's go." He glanced at Grissom. "I think your Tahoe is probably the best choice."

Grissom nodded and led the way out of the building to his truck. They all blinked in the bright sun, but Ellison seemed to have the most trouble. Granted the guy looked exhausted and had had a difficult night, but there was something about his reaction that made Grissom file it away to think about later. Right now, they had a locker to examine.


	13. Chapter 13

Jim stood back with Simon, out of the way of the experts as they opened the locker containing Sandburg's luggage. While waiting for the maintenance supervisor to bring the master key, Jim had idly enhanced his vision until he could see the myriad fingerprints on the outside of the locker. The whorls and ridges were oddly compelling and he'd quickly shifted his vision back to normal range. Dusting for prints would be less than useless.

He crossed his arms and watched as they finished lifting the prints. Nick knelt in front of the locker door, his gloved hands outstretched, prepared to prevent whatever might tumble out of the locker from falling to the floor. Jim could have told them they were wasting their time. The only things inside were Sandburg's small carry on bag and his ubiquitous backpack.

With a nod from Nick that he was ready, Grissom turned the key and slowly raised the handle on the locker, opening the door. The exposure of the two bags was anti-climactic, to say the least. Jim glanced away, a slight smile on his face, as Nick took a series of photos of the interior before they carefully pulled out the bags.

"That's Sandburg's backpack, all right," Simon said, his voice grim. "Is his laptop in there?"

Grissom eased the top of the pack open and peered inside. "There's a laptop, but you'll have to tell us if it belongs to him."

Jim focused in on a familiar small sticker on the lid of the computer and nodded. "It's his."

"Damn." Simon pulled a cigar out of his inner coat pocket and rolled it between his fingers, his expression fierce. "The kid might leave his clothes behind, but there's no way in hell that he'd be without that laptop."

"I know, Simon. I know."

They dusted the interior of the locker, but there were few prints to be found. The two bags were carefully boxed and placed on a collapsible cart to roll out to the waiting vehicles. They examined the exteriors of the lockers on either side, but there was nothing of significance there either.

"So now what?" Catherine asked as she pulled off her gloves. "You were right about the locker, Detective. Have anything else up your sleeve that you'd care to share with us?"

Jim shook his head slowly. There was something he needed to do, though he wasn't sure he could face it by himself, nor was he sure he'd be allowed that much leeway.

"What is it?" Grissom asked.

Jim glanced at him. "What is what?"

"You looked like you wanted to say something just then, when Catherine asked what was next." Grissom's tone was calm, but his eyes were sharp with the intelligence that lurked behind his mild manner. "If you have a suggestion, I'd think that at this point we'd all like to hear it."

"I want to examine the body that was found at the car wreck." He shuddered slightly.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Nick asked, his expression sympathetic. "Doc's already done the autopsy. I mean, we know it's not your partner, so what would be the point?"

Jim caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Simon had just stuck his unlit cigar into his mouth and clamped down on it firmly. A sure sign that he was prepared not to be happy with what Jim might be about to say. He took a calming breath and plunged on.

"There may be something I can find that your Coroner didn't. Our ME, Dan Wolfe, is one of the best around and yet there are occasions when I've managed to see things that he's missed. Maybe because I have a, uh, unique way of looking at things." Jim shrugged and ignored Simon's sudden cough.

Brass merely shrugged. "I don't know what you think you'll find, but it's all right with me if you want to waste your time. However, it's up to Gil."

Jim expected some argument that there would be nothing left to find on a body that had already been autopsied and washed down, but Grissom surprised him. Though there was something unnerving about the way that Grissom regarded him intently for several moments before he spoke, in the end he agreed to Jim's request--on one condition.

"I want to be there when you do your examination," he said, his unblinking gaze fixed on Jim's face.

"Of course. I'd expect it." It would be a nuisance, but Jim could deal with it. He could deal with anything if it meant he was even one step closer to finding Sandburg.


	14. Chapter 14

Nick waited a polite few steps away from Grissom and the Doc as they wrangled quietly over Ellison's request and several steps away from the two men from Cascade. He was positioned in a sort of no-man's land between two wary pseudo-tribes; not enemies, but not yet comfortable allies.

It was an odd place to be, but then Nick was used to playing the role of go-between. Hadn't he always been the conciliator in his large family, even though he was the youngest? He hated unnecessary conflict and this was definitely a situation that could easily escalate into having lines of jurisdiction and authority being drawn in the quicksand.

He glanced at Ellison and Banks and frowned when Ellison suddenly relaxed his stiff posture. And then he heard Doc Robbins' measured voice agreeing to the request. It almost seemed as though Ellison had known somehow that the Doc was going to say yes before he'd said the words loudly enough to be heard by everyone, but that was impossible. Ellison was standing further away from Grissom and the Doc than Nick, and Nick had only been able to hear the tone of their conversation. He hadn't been able to make out their words.

Nick puzzled over it as they moved into the morgue. He'd noticed Grissom's careful reactions to Ellison ever since they'd arrived at the Lab. It probably wasn't obvious to anyone else, with the possible exception of Catherine, but he could tell that Ellison fascinated Grissom. It had bothered Nick at first, but Grissom's fascination had nothing to do with Ellison per se. Instead, he was fascinated by how Ellison behaved, how he reacted.

If there was a puzzle to be solved, Grissom was drawn to it like a bear to honey. The more unusual the puzzle, the stronger the pull. Grissom was never more attractive than when he was in the middle of solving a conundrum, but he was never more irritating as well. Having the full force of Grissom's personality focused on one could be disconcerting, to say the least. Nick had already seen Ellison look startled a time or two under Grissom's regard.

Now that the corpse was laid out on the slab, Nick wasn't so much interested in looking at it as he was in watching Grissom watch Ellison work. There was something going on here that Grissom thought was important and that was enough for Nick to pay close attention as well. He'd learned more about crime scene analysis by simply observing Grissom and paying attention to what he paid attention to, than he ever had in a classroom.

Dr. Robbins peeled back the shroud and moved to the foot of the table. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows as he glanced at the detectives from Cascade. Ellison stepped up to the table and stared at the body, though he avoided looking too closely at the mutilated face.

Ellison was pale and Nick wondered if the superficial resemblance of the corpse to his friend was the cause. He thought about what it would be like if it were Grissom's--or Warrick's or Catherine's--double laid out on the slab and he had to examine it for evidence, and he swallowed hard. Ellison must have an iron constitution, because Nick was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to do it.

Ellison picked up the victim's right hand and delicately pried the fingers apart, looking at the webbing between the index and middle finger. He turned it palm up and ran his glove-covered left index finger over the padding near the base of the fingers. Grissom watched his every move intently, but Nick was pretty sure that he wasn't trying to figure out what Ellison was doing. Griss was just taking it all in, probably memorizing Ellison's moves to replay later.

"He was a smoker," Ellison said, breaking the silence that had surrounded them since they'd entered the morgue.

Robbins frowned. "Yes, he was. I found damage to his throat and lungs that's consistent with what I'd expect to find in a long time smoker."

"There're faint brown and yellow stains on his fingers and hand and the skin is dry and a bit weathered, like you find on a chain smoker who tries to hide it by cleaning well. You can never get all of the tar and nicotine stains out of your skin if you continue to smoke, no matter how hard you work at it. And smoking dries and ages the skin as well." Ellison shrugged. "I don't see how it helps us to know that, though."

Grissom raised an eyebrow, but he didn't interrupt. Nick watched in fascination as Ellison closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath and then bent over the body to focus on the victim's head. From the eye sockets to the point of the chin, the victim's face had been smashed and mangled from the force of the impact of the car. Nick had seen his share of dead bodies and had learned to deal, but he still felt his stomach twist. He didn't imagine the slight tremor that ran through Ellison's fingers as he delicately probed the facial wounds.

Ellison pulled his hands back and straightened abruptly. "What did you determine to be the cause of death?" He shot a questioning look at Robbins.

"Blunt force trauma caused by the car crash. The car went over a 200 foot embankment, ending up wrapped around a tree at the bottom of a ravine."

"What about these marks on the bone in the facial wounds?"

Robbins frowned and edged his way around the table, using his crutch as a balance. "What marks?"

Ellison waited until Robbins was right next to him and then pointed to different sections of the face where bone was exposed. "Here. Here. And here. These look like deliberate marks made by a heavy blunt object." He cocked his head as if considering. "Maybe a tire iron or small round metal pole of some kind."

Robbins pulled the overhead light and magnifying glass down for a closer inspection. "Hand me that probe on the table over there, will you Nick?"

Robbins peeled back flaps of skin and tissue in the areas Ellison had pointed out and examined them under the magnifier. After several moments, he straightened up as well, a grim expression on his face.

"I'll be damned." He glanced at Ellison and shook his head. "I owe you an apology, Detective. I don't know how I missed that."

"Doc?" Nick asked and raised his eyebrows.

"Detective Ellison's right. If I'd seen this--hell, if I'd examined the face more closely I would've caught it. The damage is consistent with blunt trauma all right, but not from the accident. It's too regular a pattern for that. It's more like someone deliberately beat his face in."

"For what reason?" Nick frowned.

"Most likely, to disguise his identity," Grissom said, his voice grave, "and to lead us to identify the body as Mr. Sandburg. At least for awhile."

"Why? I mean, I understand the basic why. This body is a decoy. But why go to all that trouble. No one was looking for Sandburg. Why try to make it seem like he'd been killed? Unless, it was Sandburg himself who did it, trying to cover his tracks. Not that that's what happened." Nick hastily held up his hands when Ellison glared at him. "I'm just sayin', is all."

"Sandburg didn't do this. You can get rid of that idea right now." Ellison looked down at the body and his expression became thoughtful. "Someone got nervous about something. Or maybe they were trying to buy some time. For what, I don't know."

Ellison stared at the body's left arm and moved around the table to stand next to it. He lifted the arm and held it out sideways from the victim's body, turned slightly so the inner portion of the arm was exposed. He narrowed his eyes and ran his fingers over the skin from the armpit to the elbow.

"Was there evidence of drugs in his blood?" he asked softly.

Robbins shook his head. "We ran a standard tox screen. No alcohol, no illegal drugs."

"What about non-standard drugs?" Ellison raised his head and his eyes were bleak. "Things that might not show up in a standard screen, but you might find if you thought you needed to look for something a bit more esoteric?"

"I don't know. We didn't go past the standard tests. There didn't seem to be any need. Why? Is there some reason for you to think he was drugged as well as bludgeoned to death?" Robbins asked.

"I don't know." Ellison rubbed under his chin with the back of the fingers of his left hand. "But I'd swear that I can see sign of an injection on the skin of his arm here. The skin has a slightly bumpy feel."

Robbins reached his hand out, ran his fingers lightly over the arm and frowned. "I don't feel anything that unusual, but then my fingertips aren't all that sensitive." He pulled down the magnifying glass and examined the area closely. "Hmm. It's possible that this is a puncture from a very fine needle. I'll need to take a closer look to be sure."

Nick could almost feel Grissom vibrate as if his energy level had just edged a notch higher. Something about what the Doc had said had sparked a recognition in him. But if Nick knew Grissom at all, he was still gathering evidence of whatever it was that he thought was going on and he wouldn't say anything until he was sure of his facts.

"Are you suggesting that we should do more tests?" Grissom asked.

"Maybe. I don't know." Ellison shook his head, his voice reflecting his frustration. "I don't know what I thought I'd accomplish here."

"It was a good idea, Jim." Banks took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Sometimes there's just nothing to find."

Grissom shook his head. "No. I think he may have something. And even if it doesn't pan out, it won't hurt to run another blood workup. Doc? You want to do the honors?"

Robbins shrugged. "Sure. Why not? There should still be plenty of blood in the body." He turned to one of the cabinets and pulled out a syringe kit. Nodding at Grissom to turn the head up slightly, he plunged the needle into the carotid artery and filled the syringe with dark red blood. He capped off the sample, added a label, and handed it to Grissom.

Grissom held it out to Nick. "Have Greg do a complete analysis on this. Tell him..." He got that funny little smile on his face that always made the hair on the back of Nick's neck stand up. "Tell Greg that if he can think it up, he can run it."

Nick blinked. Grissom had just given Greg carte blanche in the lab. Greg. Who hadn't met a test that he didn't want to try. Grissom was putting a lot of faith in Ellison's abilities and hunches. Did that mean that he thought that Ellison was that good?

"You got it. Want me to check on how they're doing with the laptop, while I'm there?"

"Laptop?" Ellison asked sharply. "Are you talking about Sandburg's computer?"

Nick nodded. "We need to boot it up. See if there're any files that your friend may have accessed recently that might shed some light on what happened to him."

Ellison shot an alarmed glance at Banks, who suddenly looked slightly ill. "Simon--"

"Don't, Jim." Banks sighed heavily. "I'll take care of it."

"What?" Nick asked.

"There's some...sensitive data on Sandburg's laptop. We don't know if it's password protected or encrypted." He glanced at Ellison, who nodded. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you let me be the one who goes through his files."

Sensitive data? On a college student's laptop? What were these guys, some kind of secret agents or something?

"I suppose we can arrange for that," Grissom said with a frown. "I'm not sure that I like it."

Banks nodded. "And I can appreciate that. Can you extend your trust far enough to believe me when I say that if I come across anything that's pertinent to this investigation that I promise to show it to you?"

Grissom narrowed his eyes and stared at Banks. After a few moments he nodded sharply. "I'll hold you to that. Nicky, take him with you."

Nick nodded and gestured at the door. "Captain Banks? After you, sir." He followed the big man out of the morgue and led the way to Greg's lab.


	15. Chapter 15

Nick signed his name to the last page of the report and placed it neatly in the case file, grateful for a few quiet moments when he was actually able to catch up on paperwork. It wasn't his favorite thing, but it was a necessary part of completing his investigation and he took pride in providing a cogent analysis of the evidence.

The soft clicking of fingers over a keyboard drew his attention and he glanced at Captain Banks. The man had been quietly working at the older model laptop computer since they'd appropriated it from one of the technicians. The poor guy hadn't even had a chance to try to boot it up when they'd swooped down on him and gathered it up.

Every so often, while he was working on his reports, Nick had glanced over at Banks. Most of the time he'd been stoically staring at whatever he was reading, but a few times Nick had caught him with an odd expression on his face--sorrow, sadness, and grief all warring for supremacy--only to pull himself together and slip on his poker-face. He wondered if he should tell him not to bother. It was already obvious to everyone on Grissom's team that he was hurting right along with his detective and no one thought any the less of either of them for it.

Banks sighed and rubbed at his eyes. He covered them completely with one of his big hands, as though he wanted to hide away from the world for a moment.

Nick allowed him that privacy and then cleared his throat. When Banks glanced up, he asked, "Did you find anything useful, Captain?"

Banks bit his lip and said in a rusty voice, "Nothing that's going to help the investigation." He glanced away, looking out the windows of the lab into the quiet hallway beyond. "Have you ever known someone well, or thought you did? And then found out that they were more than you'd thought?"

Nick shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure I follow you."

Banks closed the lid on the laptop and stared down at the shiny aluminum surface. "Blair Sandburg is one of the smartest men I've ever met. I care about the kid almost as much as if he were related, though I take pains not to show it. Especially not to him." He looked straight at Nick, though Nick had the impression that Banks was looking right through him. "And then he went and died on us."

Nick's eyes widened. "Sir? Died? I thought--"

Banks waved his hand. "Oh, he didn't stay dead. No. Jim made sure of that. Brought him back to life, you know? But I was pretty sure that would be the end of Sandburg working with Jim. I mean, just how much is one man supposed to take and not want to leave? I thought that was why he was taking this trip of his and why I didn't put too much stock in Jim's worrying at first." He sighed, a deep, heartfelt sound that came from his toes. "I was wrong. Sandburg's journal entries from the time he got to New Mexico to the day before he disappeared all lead to one fact. He was coming home to stay. He spelled it out in his journal. For him, home is wherever Jim is. It's as simple as that."

Nick swallowed hard. Powerful words, especially when said with such deep conviction. He wondered what it felt like to be cared for--_to be loved_\--that deeply. What was there about Ellison that inspired such depth of feeling? Then there was the flip side of course, what would it be like to feel that deeply about someone? Grissom's face flashed before his mind's eye and he quickly pushed it away, unwilling to follow such a dangerous thought. The stinging in his eyes had everything to do with what Captain Banks had said and nothing to do with the emptiness he suddenly felt.

"Nicky?"

Nick glanced over his shoulder to see Grissom standing in the doorway to the lab, Ellison a few steps behind him.

"Hey Griss. What's up?"

"We've done all we can for now. Greg's analysis is going to take awhile. I thought it might be a good time for Captain Banks and Detective Ellison to go back to their hotel and get some rest." Grissom leaned against the door jam.

"Hotel." Banks had a blank look on his face. "I hadn't planned on staying overnight. I thought I'd be making the ID, grabbing Jim and heading home. I didn't make a hotel reservation." He turned to Ellison, who shook his head.

"Sorry, Simon. My room's barely big enough for me."

"Damn." Banks rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly tired where he'd merely seemed focused before.  He glanced at Grissom. "Any recommendations on where I should try to get a room?"

Grissom raised his hand. "No need. I asked Catherine to help out. She arranged for a small suite at the MGM Grand for both you and Detective Ellison. Complements of the LVPD." He smiled slightly. "We're listing you as outside consultants."

Nick raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know we did that."

Grissom shrugged. "Happens occasionally. We haven't called in any specialists in awhile now, so I thought I'd make use of the fund. Technically, they are specialists. Their speciality just happens to be in knowing Mr. Sandburg."

Banks stood up and reached across the desk to unplug the power cord to the laptop. "Your CSI Willows brought me here directly from the airport." He glanced at Ellison and began to coil the cord around the power supply. "You have a rental car, Jim?"

"I wasn't exactly in a position to drive myself here this morning. The rental's still at the hotel, Simon."

"Nick can drive you both." Grissom glanced at Nick. "You'll probably want to take them over to the Gold Spike so Detective Ellison can check out and pick up his car and follow you back to the MGM. The reservation is under my name. Just tell the front desk that you're there for the room that's being held for the Crime Lab."

Nick nodded. "You all about ready to head out, then?"

Banks picked up the laptop, holding it securely in his arms. Ellison's attention was focused on the silver case as if it were something magical and dreadful all at once.

"You find anything useful in that, Simon?" Ellison's voice was husky and held a curious note.

Banks shook his head minutely. "Nothing for the case, Jim."

Ellison's shoulders sagged. By his odd word emphasis, Banks seemed to be trying to tell Ellison that there was something personal for the detective in the computer, but Nick wasn't sure that Ellison had gotten the hint. It looked like Ellison didn't have a clue when it came to how Sandburg felt about him. Though he barely knew the detective and he didn't know Sandburg at all, the thought of the two men being so close and yet so far apart saddened him.

"What about you guys?" Nick asked Grissom. "Were you able to get anything more from the, uh, John Doe?" He shot a quick sideways glance at Ellison, but he was still staring at the laptop and didn't react to Nick's question.

"Not from the body, no," Grissom replied, "but, when we pulled out the clothes that he'd been wearing, Detective Ellison smelled something unusual on one of the shirt sleeves. There isn't any visible sign of foreign matter on the sleeve, but a stain did appear when we fluoresced it. We sent it to Trace for analysis."

"He smelled it?" Nick raised an eyebrow. "Could you? Smell it, I mean?"

Grissom shook his head, a speculative expression on his face. "No. But some people do have sensitive noses."

"But--"

"Our guests look exhausted, Nick." They both glanced at Ellison, who was rubbing at his eyes. "Why don't you head on out?"

"What time do you want us back here?" Banks asked.

"We're not going to get out of here for another couple of hours at least. I want everyone to go home and get some rest so we can start fresh. How about coming back around 11 p.m.?"

Banks nodded, his expression weary. "That's more than generous. I've got to pick up some clothes and I know I could use a few hours of shuteye." He moved around the desk and nudged Ellison's shoulder. "Come on Jim. Let's get out of here and get some sleep."

Nick could see the concern in the Captain's eyes when Ellison didn't answer, but merely nodded mutely. Between the two of them, they managed to steer Ellison out to Nick's Tahoe and into the back seat. Nick was tired, coming up on the end of a double shift, but what he felt was nothing compared to the numbing emotional exhaustion of the two men in the truck with him. He had a feeling that the only thing that would ease their pain would be finding their friend alive as quickly as possible. As he drove his truck through the crowded streets, Nick vowed silently to do whatever it took to make that happen. And prayed that he'd be able to live up to that vow.


	16. Chapter 16

Jim dropped his duffel bag on the bed and glanced around the room. Definitely nicer than the tiny place he'd called home for the last week, but it was still just a hotel room. A place with a bed and a pillow where he could lay his head in between searching for Sandburg. The amenities were unimportant to him in the extreme. If they made his search easier, then he was all for them. Otherwise, he just couldn't bring himself to care.

A knock on the door and Simon poked his head in. "We've both got king beds and private baths. Nice place they've put us up in, I'll say that for 'em."

"Uh-huh." He sat on the bed and took off his shoes.

Simon came all the way inside. "We are going to find him. Alive. You hear me?"

"I hear you, Simon," he said in a husky voice. "I just don't know if I believe it."

"Damn it, Jim! Don't you give up on Sandburg!" Simon scowled. "He's counting on you to figure out where he is and find him. Just like you did when Lash had him. Just like you've always done. So you remember that and pull yourself together. There'll be plenty of time for us to fall apart after we've got him back safe."

"Yeah." Jim glanced over his shoulder at the bed. "I, uh, probably won't sleep very long. I'll try not to disturb you when I get up."

Simon's expression was full of sympathy. "Don't worry about it. If you can't sleep and you need someone to talk to, wake me up. I won't mind. Fact is, I doubt I'll be sleeping all that well myself. Good night Jim."

"'Night Simon."

The door shut with a soft snick. For a moment Jim sat still on the bed, before rising to methodically pull off his clothes. He folded them neatly and placed them on the plush chair in the corner. The sheets were cool and soft against his skin and he sighed with relief when his head touched the pillow. He was asleep before he had time to worry about his nightmares.

 

 

 

__

_The hallway wavered and blinked in and out of his vision, his surroundings taking on an odd blue tint. His heart beat faster. He should know what that meant, but fear filled his mind. This was wrong. All wrong._

_He floated down the hallway, curious that he didn't need to use his feet. He glanced down, bemused to see that he had enormous black paws. That was definitely different. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder, expecting to see the hallway stretch behind him. Instead he saw a sleek black back and hindquarters, two more legs and a long tail lashing back and forth in agitation. Beyond that was a blue tinted jungle._

_His head whipped forward and he saw the hallway once again. It was the same odd wavering vision as before, as if he were seeing it from two different vantages, two different heights. He shook his head and frowned, or tried to. Instead he felt a low growl coming from his throat. He tried to raise his hand to touch his throat, but one of the paws scratched at his jaw._

_His heart beat triple time. What was happening? What was he?_

_A low moan. Barely a whisper and yet it called to him as surely as if whoever made it had yelled his name. He floated toward the sound, sure of his direction if not his destination. A feeling of deja vu filled him. He'd been here before, he was sure of it. The rooms he passed, with their closed doors, were silent and the stillness made him uneasy. Shouldn't he have sensed something?_

_The faint moan sounded again and he tracked it to a familiar looking door. For a moment, his vision wavered--he saw the solid door, but he also saw through a window set in the top of the door--and then stabilized until he was only looking through the window. He frowned and this time there was no corresponding growl. Cautiously, he raised his hand and was relieved to see that it was a human hand. A quick glance down reassured him that he was once again a man. He wasn't, however, quite brave enough to look behind him and see if the jungle was gone._

_He looked through the window in the door at a man strapped to a metal table. He felt he should know him, but all he was certain of was what was in his heart--that the person in that room was the most important thing in his universe. Words, names held no meaning in comparison to that sure knowledge._

_The locked door resisted all of his attempts to force it open. He beat his fists against the window and the door in frustration, but stilled as he caught sight of another man in the room. The man held a syringe in his hands and approached the bound figure._

_He screamed his rage and frustration, but no sound emerged from his lips. Silent sobs wracked his frame as he clawed at the door. He pressed his face against the single pane of glass and felt the coldness seep into his bones. He had to end this, had to find a way to save the man in that room._

_The syringe was emptied into the bound man's arm. His body arched off the gurney as much as it was able, given the restraints holding it down. His face a silent mask of pain as his body endured spasm after spasm. Finally his body lay limp on the gurney. He slowly turned his head to face the window and his eyes opened, recognition warming them as he gazed through the barrier. His expression became one of yearning as he whispered a single word._

_"Jim."_

_As the whisper faded, the man on the gurney morphed into the still form of a wolf._

 

 

 

"Blair!" Jim struggled against the hands that held him down, his sleep fogged mind still caught in his nightmare.

"Jim! It's just a dream, man. Wake up!" Simon's voice finally penetrated his confusion.

Jim stopped struggling and opened his eyes to Simon's concerned gaze. "What's going on?"

Simon released him and stepped back from the bed with a sigh. "Thank God. I heard a noise and when I came in to investigate, you were in the midst of a pretty intense nightmare." He passed a shaking hand over his brow. "I didn't think you were going to wake up. If this is the nightmare you mentioned, I can see why you don't want to go to sleep."

He moved Jim's clothes to the top of the dresser and sank down gratefully into the overstuffed chair. Jim pushed himself up to sit on the side of the bed. He scrubbed at his face, unsurprised to find that it was wet. His fingertips tingled as his sense of touch suddenly ran riot and he could feel his cheeks chapping from the pressure of rubbing away the saltwater of his tears.

Jim lifted his head and stared off into space. "This one was different, Simon. The rest of the nightmares have been bad enough, but still, I could tell myself that they were just dreams. I dreamt of Sandburg in the same place. But this time it was one of those sentinel vision dreams."

"The ones where you see that black jaguar?" Simon frowned. "I thought you told me that they always take place in the jungle?"

"The jungle was there, too. This time I was the jaguar. I mean, I was me, but at the same time I was also the jaguar. When I'd look behind me, I could see the jungle. When I looked ahead of me, I was in the medical lab."

"You were yelling Sandburg's name, Jim. I think that's what woke me." Simon ran a hand back over his head. "Jesus. You wouldn't wake up. You just kept getting more and more agitated. Scared the shit out of me."

"In my dream, or whatever, I passed several closed doors, just like every other time. This time I couldn't hear anything from the other side of the doors."

"You mean like your sense of hearing wasn't working?"

He shook his head. "No. It was more like there wasn't anything to hear. There should have been people behind those doors, but they either weren't there anymore or they were dead. The...feeling I had. It's hard to describe, but it felt like I was too late. Like I should have gotten there sooner so I could save them."

"Jim," Simon said softly, "it might have been one of your visions, but have they ever shown you exactly what's going to happen before? I mean, it's not like you had a vision of the fountain, right? So maybe this is just some kind of warning."

Jim closed his eyes and clenched his fists tightly. He'd never told anyone about his vision of the wolf when Alex Barnes had been in Cascade and he didn't know if he'd be able to get through it now. He lifted eyes filled with self-loathing and gazed at Simon, who gasped.

"Jim--"

"Simon, please. I need to tell you something. I've never talked about this, especially not with Blair, but, well, I think I need to." He drew a breath. "When I was going through all of that weird shit over Alex Barnes, you know? Well, one of the things that freaked me out the most was a vision that I kept having. A sentinel vision. I was walking through the jungle, carrying a crossbow. I felt danger around me and I saw a movement in the trees, so I aimed the bow and fired."

"You don't have to tell me about this, Jim, if it's that difficult." Simon shook his head.

"Yeah. I do. It's just hard. Whatever I was aiming at, well, I hit it. When I got closer, I saw that it was a wolf. I'd killed it. As I stared at it, the wolf changed."

"Changed? Changed how?"

"It became Sandburg." He turned a haunted gaze on his friend. "I'd killed Blair and I hadn't even realized it was him until the end."

"God," Simon whispered.

"It was stupid, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him about the vision. I had the strongest feeling that Blair was in danger and I thought that the danger was from me. I knew that if I told him that that he'd try to convince me I was wrong." Jim shrugged. "I was so screwed up from everything that was happening with Barnes that I just wasn't able to think straight. So I pushed him away, believing I was keeping him safe."

"And you never told Sandburg about it? Not even after we caught up with her?"

He shook his head. "I just couldn't. Every time I thought I should tell him, that he had a right to know, I chickened out. It wasn't fair, but it was easier for me to pretend that it hadn't happened."

"Okay." Simon crossed his arms over his chest. "I get why you haven't said anything to Sandburg. Why tell me? Why now?"

"Because I saw something similar in my vision just now. I saw Sandburg strapped down and I saw a doctor or lab tech or whoever give him an injection. He was in physical agony and I couldn't get through the door to help him. And at the end, he turned and saw me through the window. He recognized me, Simon, and he was glad to see me. He whispered my name. And then he became the wolf." He gazed at Simon through eyes blurred with unshed tears.

"Hell, Jim. No wonder you were fighting me like you did." Simon rubbed at his eyes. "I don't know how you do it."

"What?"

"I don't know how you endure these visions and all the other crazy stuff that seems to be part of being a sentinel and still manage to keep your sanity." Simon raised his eyebrows.

"I have Blair."

His words rang with a deep truth. Without Blair he wouldn't be a sentinel. Or he'd be insane. Or maybe both. He wouldn't put it past the cosmos or the universe or whatever it was that was guiding their destiny. He glanced at Simon, curious as to his reaction, afraid that he'd said something his friend wouldn't want to hear. The thoughtful expression on Simon's face turned into a wry smile as he met Jim's gaze.

"Thank God for that."

Jim slowly let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and nodded.

"And thank God Sandburg's got you, too."

Jim blinked at the conviction in Simon's voice. It was true, of course, but he was surprised that Simon would make that connection. It seemed that he'd been taken in by Simon's continual verbal refusal to want to know much of anything about the workings of being a sentinel and hadn't seen that he'd been drawing his own conclusions over the years.

Jim yawned, taking them both by surprise. He smiled slightly and asked, "What time is it, anyway?"

"About 8:00." Simon shrugged. "I was just getting up when I heard you in here. You want to try to get some more sleep?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm up now. Think I'll take a shower." He stood and stretched, reaching high to get the kinks out of his back. "You want to get something to eat before we go meet Grissom and his gang?"

Simon nodded. "What do you think of them?"

Jim considered the question carefully. "They're damn good at finding evidence and understanding how to put everything together. Brass strikes me as a solid cop. I figure he's got a right to be prickly towards us--first I was a suspect, now we're horning in on his investigation." Jim hesitated and added, "Grissom's a bit spooky, though, don't you think?"

Simon snorted softly. "Spooky isn't the half of it. Be careful around him, Jim. He was watching you pretty intently while you examined that body. He's smart enough to have already figured out that something's up with you. He's more likely than anybody I've ever met to put two and two together and come up with the correct answer when it comes to your abilities."

"Simon, if me shouting about my sentinel abilities from a rooftop would help us find Sandburg, I'd do it in a second," he said, his voice somber. "I appreciate what you're saying and I'll be careful, but if push comes to shove I'll use my abilities and damn the consequences."

Simon grimaced, but said, "I just hope it doesn't come to that." He let himself out of the bedroom, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Me too," Jim whispered to the empty room.


	17. Chapter 17

Things were chaotic at the Crime Lab when Jim and Simon arrived a little after 11 o'clock. They found Grissom on his way to another autopsy--another apparent drug overdose. The body had been discovered by a police officer who'd reported it quietly, so the media hadn't descended on them as yet. Catherine and Nick were still at the crime scene gathering evidence.

"Care to join us for the autopsy?" Grissom asked. "This is the fifth body we've had with a similar appearance. The body that Detective Ellison reported? That was number four."

"A serial killer?" Simon's eyes widened.

Grissom spread his hands. "We don't know for sure, but if the tox screen comes up the same on this guy, then we have to seriously consider the serial killer angle. The problem is, the only thing that's similar is the way the victims died. There's no real pattern to use to create a profile of the killer, but maybe that's the pattern in itself."

Jim exchanged a concerned look with Simon and nodded. This couldn't be a coincidence, not with the way their lives worked. And he couldn't ignore the possibility that some crazy was walking the streets of Las Vegas when there might be something he could do about it.

"We'd be happy to help." Simon frowned. "You said this is the fifth body. How long between finding them? What makes you suspect murder?"

They continued down the hall as Grissom answered. "The first two bodies were found during day shift. They both looked like simple drug overdoses, no overt sign of foul play. The victims were underweight and exhibited all the classic signs of drug addiction. They were both classified as accidental deaths and the cases were closed. A couple of days later, I sent Warrick and Sara out on another drug overdose case."

"Do you get many of those in Las Vegas?" Jim asked.

"It happens. So it wasn't like it was completely out of the question for three overdoses in so many days. And if a different CSI had been assigned the case, it's possible that no connection would have been made between them. As it was, Warrick knew the guy on day shift who caught the first two cases. The day shift guy thought there was something strange about them, but he didn't have anything concrete to base his feeling on. Warrick decided to check into the first two cases as well."

"And he thought there was something a little too similar about them?"

Grissom shrugged. "Warrick couldn't point at anything specific. The crime scenes were at different ends of the Strip. The victims all fit the profile of what looked like obvious long-time users, but something nagged at him. I think partly because he couldn't get a positive ID on any of the victims. Whatever it was, he decided to follow a hunch and compared their tox results."

They paused outside the morgue and Grissom rested a hand on the door as he gazed at them.

"And?" Simon asked.

"There were traces of heroin and crack cocaine, but not enough to cause an overdose." His mouth quirked into a small smile. "However, all three victims had high levels of pharmaceutical grade barbiturates. Toxic levels." He pushed the door open.

They entered the morgue and Jim recognized Dr. Robbins. He was pretty sure he'd also met the tall black man standing next to him, but he couldn't remember his name.

"Hey Doc. You remember our guests from Washington?" Grissom raised an eyebrow. "I asked them to join us."

"Because it's just not a party without the autopsy?" Robbins said, his voice dry. "Gentlemen, welcome again to my little corner of the world."

"And you remember Warrick Brown? Warrick is the one who put together the first three cases and had the tox screens checked."

"What about the fourth victim?" Simon asked.

"The guy that I witnessed being dumped in the parking lot? Let me guess, there were high levels of the same barbiturate in his bloodstream?"

Grissom narrowed his eyes and smiled enigmatically. "By the time the fourth body was brought to the morgue, Warrick had already told me about his suspicions with the first three overdose cases. The first thing that was checked for was the presence of the same barbiturate. It wasn't there."

"But--" Simon started to protest.

Grissom held up his hand and said, "However, a different type of drug was present. The similarity was the grade--they were definitely all high quality pharmaceuticals. Not something that you'd expect junkies to have access to or to OD from." He turned to Dr. Robbins. "Where are we, Albert?"

Robbins gestured at the corpse. "We were just starting the preliminary examination of the body." He reached up and pulled the light lower to the table, turning on the recorder. "The body is male, appears to be between 25 and 35 years of age, approximately five foot eleven inches, with dark brown hair."

Jim watched the autopsy proceed, letting the doctor's voice wash over him. Numerous experiences watching Dan Wolfe perform autopsies in Cascade after his sentinel abilities had come online had taught him that the most effective way to use his senses was to allow himself to go into a sort of mini-zone. Not deep enough to be out of it, but a sort of detached state that allowed him to consider the body as a whole and discern things that were out of place or off kilter. Sandburg had explained it to him as taking a step back and allowing his senses to filter the input in a kind of gestalt, whatever the hell that meant. He didn't worry about understanding how he did it--Sandburg understood and that was enough--Jim merely let it happen.

As the autopsy progressed, Jim was peripherally aware that he was getting increasingly focused attention from Grissom. He didn't allow himself to be distracted, trusting that Simon would deflect any questions or comments that came his way.

There was something odd about the body. Yes, it was underweight and exhibited the typical self-neglect that addicts tended to fall into when they were deep into their addictions--dirty hands and face, stringy hair that looked like it hadn't been washed for a few days, several days worth of beard growth. As Jim stared at the body, he had the strangest feeling that it was all false. Like a mask covering a face or a thin coat of paint slapped on to hide the flaws of the wall beneath it. Without meaning to, he made a soft exclamation.

"Detective?" Dr. Robbins asked. "Did you have a comment you'd like to make?"

Simon placed a not-so-subtle elbow in his ribs and Jim grunted from the pain. He blinked at the expectant faces ranged around the body, surprised to be at the center of attention.

"Jim?" Simon said. "Do you have something?" He widened his eyes and tilted his head at the corpse.

"Um, maybe." How to explain this? He gestured at the body. "It just struck me that some of this seems contrived."

"Contrived?" Warrick asked with a frown. "How so?"

"Well, take the dirt on the hands and face. Makes it look like he's been ignoring personal hygiene, right? But look at the fingernails. They're clean. There's no dirt to be found. And I'll bet that if you check behind the ears and around the back of the neck that there's no ring or crust of dirt. Maybe it's nothing, but I find it odd, considering."

Warrick turned the head and made a visual check, then glanced up at Grissom. "He's right."

Grissom nodded. "Same for the fingernails."

"Now that you mention it," Simon added, "if you really look at the rest of the body, it's a lot cleaner than you'd expect from the state of the hands and face."

Grissom frowned. "So, the killer, what? Spread on the dirt after killing him? Why?"

Jim shrugged. "Maybe to give the impression that he's a typical junkie."

"There are signs of multiple injections, though." Robbins turned one of the arms so that the inner elbow was exposed. The needle tracks were definitely in evidence.

Jim focused his vision and examined the tracks. There was something odd there as well. He frowned and said, "Those don't feel right to me."

"I'm not following. They look like needle tracks to me." Warrick raised his eyebrows.

Jim nodded impatiently. "Yeah. But they don't look like the kind of tracks a junkie would normally leave. I mean, they seem too regular for one thing. And they don't have the same kind of puffiness that you usually find on a junkie's arms. They look more like they were created by someone who's used to giving injections. Just enough roughness to leave a mark behind, but otherwise a smooth insertion of the needle."

"Doc?" Grissom gazed at Robbins and raised his eyebrows.

Robbins pulled the light with the magnifier close to the right arm and examined the tracks visually and with his fingertips. He frowned thoughtfully and retracted the light.

"It's hard to tell, because there is some bruising. But examining the marks close up, well, I'm not sure I'd want to testify to it, but he could very well be right about that."

"What does it mean?" Simon shook his head. "Maybe this guy had some kind of job where he obtained a familiarity with needles. Or maybe he just got good at injecting himself."

"Maybe it doesn't mean anything." Jim rubbed the back of his neck in a futile attempt to ease the tension there. "It's just another piece of the puzzle. The more we know, the better we'll be able to understand the whole picture."

Warrick chuckled. "Now you sound like Grissom."

Grissom raised his eyebrows and pointedly ignored his comment. "We should compare the needle marks on the other bodies and see if there's a similar pattern."

"Is there any way to tell where the fatal dose was injected?" Simon asked.

"That would be almost impossible to figure out, given the number of puncture marks on the body." Robbins shook his head.

Jim's vision telescoped again, focusing on a tiny mark on the upper left arm. It looked like something sharp had pierced the skin, but it would be almost invisible to the naked eye. He cleared his throat and pointed at it.

"What about that?"

Robbins frowned and followed Jim's finger to the small area on the upper arm. "I don't see anything. Hold on a second." Once again he pulled down the light and peered through the magnifier. "Good lord, how did you see that?" His voice was incredulous.

Grissom glanced at the puncture mark through the glass and then gazed at Jim from over the top of his glasses. He didn't comment on the impossibility of Jim's discovery and Jim thought uneasily that he'd rather have the verbal commentary about his abilities. With Grissom it was hard to get a clue what the man was thinking.

Warrick frowned and gestured at the tiny spot on the arm. "If that's a fresh needle mark, there's no way that he could have injected himself there."

Robbins nodded. "We'll have to wait for the drug screen, of course, but I'd say you've got a murder on your hands."

Grissom straightened and glanced at Jim. "Is there anything else that you've noticed? Anything at all?"

For a brief moment, the space around Jim was filled with silence. He saw Grissom's lips move, but couldn't hear his words. Of all of the episodes that he'd endured where his senses cut out on him, the bouts of silence were the ones that terrified him the most. Just as Grissom's expression was starting to become concerned, he felt Simon shake his arm and heard him say his name.

"Jim!" Simon's voice was low, but urgent.

He shook his head, feeling almost dizzy with relief that he could hear again. "I'm all right." He stared down at the corpse and sighed. "Nothing else really jumps out at me. Any chance I could take a look at his clothes?"

Grissom rubbed at his chin with his thumb and glanced at Warrick, as if to ask his opinion.

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. I'd appreciate it." He flashed Robbins a small smile and said, "Thanks Doc."

Robbins raised his eyebrows. "It's been interesting. I'll send you my report as soon as I'm done."

Simon and Jim followed Warrick to a lab room that had a large light table. Grissom had indicated that he'd join them later. Jim relaxed, out from under the intense scrutiny of the CSI supervisor.

He'd understood what Simon had meant when he brought up the subject of Grissom watching him. He hadn't really been consciously aware of just how intense Grissom's attention was until this autopsy. The whole thing made Jim uneasy, but, strangely enough, he didn't feel threatened by it. He pushed it to the back of his mind and tried to concentrate on the case at hand. Until they had something to go on to help them find Sandburg, they could lend their expertise to help try to solve this case as well.


	18. Chapter 18

As much as Grissom would rather observe Ellison while he went through the victim's clothing, he needed to find out if Brass had made any headway with the inquiries into the missing Cascade police observer. It looked like they were going to owe Ellison that much, at least, for what he was contributing to the drug overdose case.

Brass wasn't in his office and Grissom assumed he was out on a case. It wasn't urgent enough to call him if he was in the middle of something and Brass would be in contact if he came up with anything.

Grissom encountered Sara on the way back through the PD to the Lab. She stood with her back to him, holding a quiet, but intense, conversation with one of the younger detectives. Grissom hadn't worked a case with him yet and couldn't think of his name, but Catherine had mentioned being impressed with how thorough he'd been on one of her cases.

He stopped a few feet away, not wanting to intrude or eavesdrop, waiting until they noticed him. The detective looked appropriately grave as he gazed at Sara's face while she spoke. Grissom smiled slightly. It was hard not to be somber when Sara was worked up about something.

A familiar sadness crept into Grissom's thoughts. He honestly wished Sara would find a way to bring balance into her life. A way that didn't include thinking that they should try dating, or whatever it was that she thought they should do. He was terrible at the personal stuff, he knew that. He didn't have a clue how to tell her how he really felt and so, when she blurted out her feelings he tended to be stunned and say nothing. And that only seemed to hurt her worse than if he just told her the truth.

He suppressed a sigh and considered walking on by. Somehow that seemed wrong, too. No matter what decision he made, no matter what he did or didn't do, it seemed like when it came to Sara, he couldn't get it right. When had it all turned south on him? He was going to have to talk with Catherine. She had the kind of intuitive people skills that he lacked and she made a great sounding board.

The detective glanced up and noticed Grissom standing there waiting patiently for them to finish. His shift of attention halted Sara's discourse and she glanced over her shoulder with a frown that smoothed out when she saw who it was.

"Grissom? Did you need me for something?" Sara asked.

He wondered if he was imagining the slightly eager tone in her voice. "I just thought I'd get an update on the Landers case. Nothing urgent. If you're busy here, it can wait." He smiled politely at the detective, who shook his head slightly. He appeared ready to get out from under Sara's intensity. He'd eventually learn how to deflect her. They all did after working with her for awhile.

"Sure, I can give you that." She glanced back at the detective and said, "We can finish this up later, okay Paul?"

"No problem." Paul nodded at Grissom and smiled at Sara. "See you later." He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered off down the hall.

"He's not working the Landers case?"

She flushed and a guilty look flashed across her face. "Uh, no. He's been working with Brass and O'Riley on that potential serial case. We were just talking about some of the possibilities."

Grissom frowned. "Sara, that's not your case. We've already had this conversation once. Do we need to have it again?"

"No." Her voice was firm, but there was a touch of resentment in it. "But if we do, do you think we could not have it in the hallway this time?"

He sighed. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" She tilted her head.

"My office. Come on."

They made the short journey to his office in strained silence. He hated this. She was a damn good CSI and they both knew it. That wasn't the problem. That was never the problem.

He sat behind his desk and studied her. She was avoiding his eyes by letting her gaze wander the room. Whatever this was that was between them, he needed to find a resolution that they could both live with. He feared that was a task that he simply wasn't up to, but he'd put off trying for far too long and they were both paying the consequences.

"Sara, we need to talk about this."

"About what?" She turned the full strength of her gaze upon him. "About the case? Or about the fact that you can't admit how you feel about me?" Her tone was calm, but an energy crackled beneath as if waiting for an excuse to explode outward and scorch everything in its path.

He pressed his lips together as though he could prevent the unexpected anger that suddenly boiled up inside from escaping. His nostrils flared as he tried to take a deep calming breath without gulping in air through his mouth. She was goading him, looking for a reaction, and he was damned if he was going to give her one. Especially since the reaction she wanted wasn't the one that she'd receive. His eyes hardened as he continued to examine her.

"You've got to stop that. It isn't helping matters."

She tilted her head and looked perplexed. "Why? All you have to do is talk to me. I don't understand what the big deal is. First you tell me that I need to find an interest outside work. I get that, I really do. And I'm trying. But part of finding that balance is establishing relationships with people--important relationships like friendship and love--and I know I'm not imagining this thing that's between us. I know that you feel it too. You must."

"Sara. You've got it all wrong." He leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk and gazed at her earnestly. "I really didn't want to have to have this conversation with you. I'm bad at this. I know that. I know that I'll probably say this the wrong way and I don't want to hurt you."

She frowned. "I know you're bad at this. Don't you think I know that? I'm bad at it, too. But that doesn't mean we can continue to ignore what's happening between us. You won't hurt me, just tell me what you want to tell me."

Grissom sighed. This was going to go badly and yet it would almost be a relief to have it out in the open. "When I said you've got it wrong, I was talking about your impression of what I'm feeling. I'm sorry that whatever I've said and done has made you think that my feelings for you are in any way romantic." He shook his head slowly. "Because they're not. Sara...Sara, I admire you. I admire your intelligence and the passion with which you throw yourself into your work. I even admire how deeply you can get involved in a case emotionally, although I worry about that. I consider you a brilliant colleague and, I hope, a good friend. But that's as far as my feelings go."

Sara smiled slightly. "You're still not willing to admit that this goes deeper than friendship. I just don't understand why not. What are you afraid of?"

"Sara, listen to me. Listen carefully. I'm not afraid of anything. I'm telling you my honest feelings. I do care for you, but as a friend. That's a very deep thing for me to admit. That's what you're seeing in me and misreading." He saw that she still wasn't accepting what he was saying and added in exasperation, "Sara, I'm not in love with you."

Sara blinked rapidly at the bluntness of his words and sat back as if to get further away from him. Her lower lip trembled slightly and she bit at it as if trying to gain control. His heart grew heavy as he watched the impact of his words finally sink in. He'd wanted to avoid this, convinced that all she was going through was a kind of crush that would work itself out, but this conversation had taken on a kind of inevitability that he couldn't escape.

She stood unsteadily and held onto the chair for temporary support. "I-I think I need to go now."

"Sara."

She stopped at the door, but didn't look back. "Not now. Please. I'm okay. I just need to be alone for a few minutes." And then she was gone, the door left open behind her.

Grissom took off his glasses, leaned his elbows on his desk and dropped his head into his hands. That could have gone better, he thought derisively. He'd told her the truth. He really did care about her as a friend and he didn't take friendship lightly. But he wasn't in love with her and he wasn't going to fall in love with her. How else was he supposed to tell her without actually saying the words when she wouldn't accept his roundabout explanations? And now he'd done what he'd hoped to avoid--he'd hurt her. And if he knew Sara at all, he'd hurt her fairly deeply.

"So, I just saw Sara in the ladies room. You two have a spat or something?" Catherine sounded slightly amused, slightly teasing, slightly concerned.

Grissom glanced up as she sat in the chair that Sara had just recently vacated.

Catherine sucked in her breath and asked, "Gil, what happened? This is about Sara, isn't it?"

When all he did was nod, her eyes widened and she closed the door. "What happened?" Her voice was tired and resigned. "How much damage control am I going to have to do?"

"Sara didn't say anything to you?"

She shook her head slowly and gazed at him shrewdly. "She pushed and you told her the truth, didn't you?" She smiled slightly when he blinked. "You forget, I know you. I know Sara too, if it comes to that and she has a bad habit of being blind when it suits her. Just how blunt were you?"

He hesitated, still unsure whether he wanted to confess to the mess that he'd just made.

"Gil, come on. It's me, Catherine. You know you're going to have to tell me sooner or later," she said, the exasperation clear in her voice. "You might as well get it over with now. Kind of like purging it from your system all at once. You'll feel better once you do."

"I take it that you know what's been going on with Sara and me?"

"You mean Sara's dramatic crush on the boss and the boss's ostrich-like approach to dealing with it? Of course."

He groaned. "Was it that obvious?"

"Only to those who know and love you," she replied, her tone light. She shook her head. "Really, I think I'm the only one who copped to it. Nicky's about as clueless as you are. And Warrick, well, you know how he likes to play things close to the vest. But I don't think he's put two and two together--yet."

"So much for hoping it would all just go away."

"With Sara?" She raised her eyebrows. "You really have been pretending to be an ostrich, haven't you?"

"Not any more. It pretty much came to a head a few minutes ago. I'm afraid I bungled it pretty badly."

"What did you end up telling her?"

"I told her that I care for her as a friend--and you know how much that means to me--but that I'm not in love with her. As you can guess, she didn't take that well." He glanced up in surprise and then smiled wryly when she laughed softly.

"What am I going to do with you?" Her voice was gentle and she smiled. "How can you be so smart when it comes to your bugs and your puzzles, but so...so dumb when it comes to women? Never tell a woman who thinks she has feelings for you that you want to be friends, not straight out. Especially not in the same breath that you tell her you're not in love with her."

He leaned back in his chair and propped his chin on his hand. "So what do you suggest, oh wise woman?"

"Let me talk to her." Catherine shook her head. "Don't try to fix anything on your own."

"Think I'll just manage to make things worse, huh?"

"Gil..." She let her voice trail off as she glanced idly around his office. "Have you ever wondered why Sara sometimes has those little blowups with Nick and Warrick?"

"I guess I've always just thought that was part of her competitive nature. When she feels that she's right about something, she tends to be fairly tenacious about it, unless she's shown pretty forcefully that she's wrong." He blinked. "Oh."

"Oh, is right." She shrugged. "And while I can almost see the light bulb over your head, that's just a part of it. The other part, the part that makes her squabble with them instead of just stating her case, is plain old jealousy."

"Jealousy?"

"Jealousy. You never play favorites, Gil. But Sara doesn't see it that way. She wants your attention so much that she feels like she has to compete with Nick and Warrick for it. And, being Sara, somewhere inside she thinks that you give them more than you give her."

"I don't do that. Do I?" He frowned.

Catherine shook her head. "No. You don't give them more attention."

"I sense a but in that sentence."

"But...you give each of them a different kind of attention, based on your perception of them. You're tough on Warrick, but there's also a level of trust and respect between the two of you that's pretty amazing--and it shows. You're tough on Nick, but in an entirely different way. And for Sara, it doesn't help that Nicky worships the ground you walk on." She smiled. "Especially because you treat her sort of like an exasperating, but cared for, younger sister. And that's definitely not what she wants from you."

"So I gathered," he said, his voice dry. Was that really how other people perceived him? "What about you?"

"Me?"

"How do I treat you? Why doesn't Sara argue with you?"

"First, she doesn't argue with me because she knows I wouldn't take that crap. She also doesn't see me as any kind of threat, because it's obvious that you and I aren't interested in each other in a romantic sense."

Grissom shook his head helplessly. How the hell had he gotten into this mess? "You'll talk to her, then?"

"I'll talk to her. One of these days, Gil, you and I are going to have to have a heart to heart."

"About?"

"About you and taking a ride on the clue bus and missed opportunities."

He was about to ask what the hell that meant, when his cell phone rang.

"Grissom." He frowned. "Is he sure? All right. Get it to trace and have them compare it to the shirt...oh, okay, good. Yeah. Catherine's in my office now. We'll meet you in the DNA lab." He flipped his phone closed and glanced at Catherine. "That was Warrick."

"And?"

"And it looks like there may be a link between our overdose cases and the Sandburg disappearance."

"Really." She stood. "And we're meeting them in Greg's lab?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well," she said, her eyes flashing. "What are you waiting for? Let's go get 'em."

"Yes ma'am."

"Don't you ma'am me, or I'll refuse to get you out of the mess you've made."

"Sorry." He held up his hands and grinned. "Sorry."


	19. Chapter 19

"And I'm telling you, it's the same substance."

Nick stood in the doorway and watched in fascination as Ellison's jaw flexed. He imagined that he could hear his teeth grinding together from where he stood across the room. He'd just returned from processing the latest scene with Catherine. She'd gone in search of Grissom and he'd stopped to drop off the evidence they'd collected for analysis. When he'd heard Warrick's voice coming from the open door of this lab, he'd stopped to see what was going on.

"How the hell can you be so sure?" Warrick glared at Ellison and Ellison's back seemed to get even stiffer.

"I just can."

Nick frowned slightly. That had to be the lamest explanation that he'd ever heard. From the dull red flush that spread upwards from his collar, Ellison must have known how it sounded. Captain Banks looked clearly uncomfortable, but he wasn't disagreeing with Ellison's assertion. Warrick, however, looked just about ready to explode.

"Hey man. What's goin' on?" Nick could tell he'd put his accent on a bit thick by the way Warrick rolled his eyes, but it did tend to come out that way when he was nervous or stressed.

"Nothin'. The detective here thinks he can identify a colorless and nearly odorless stain simply by sniffing it." Warrick shook his head.

"I told you, it may be odorless to you, but it has a very distinctive smell to me. And it's the same odor that I smelled on the shirt that the John Doe from the car accident was wearing." Ellison's voice was low and sounded like he had it under tight control.

Interesting. Grissom seemed to think that there was something going on with Ellison. The guy had shown some amazing abilities already, why not one more?

"And I say that's impossible," Warrick said sarcastically.

Even though neither had made a move, Nick stepped between them and held up his hands. "Whoa, now. Hold on. Why don't we approach this scientifically?" He pointed at the torn jeans on the table. "I take it the stain's on those jeans?"

"Yeah," Warrick replied.

"And Detective Ellison," he said and smiled at the man, "says he can identify the stain as the same substance that was found on the shirt?"

Ellison nodded.

"Then, why don't we take the jeans down to Trace and find out if the substance is the same? Simple, no fuss, no coming to blows." Nick smiled.

"Well," Warrick said, reluctance in his voice, "I guess that makes sense."

"Fine with me." Ellison shrugged.

"Great. Captain Banks, would you and Detective Ellison mind waiting in the hall for a moment while I talk to Warrick about something?" He smiled politely and waited while Banks ushered Ellison out, closing the door behind them.

"Warrick, what're you doin', man?" Nick kept his voice pitched low.

"What, just because the guy's got good eyes I'm supposed to believe he can identify something by smell that can't be smelled?" Warrick asked in a normal voice and shook his head.

"Keep it down, would ya?" Nick whispered, glancing over his shoulder at the door.

"What?" Warrick asked, his voice lower than normal now. "Now you think he can hear us talking through that door?"

"I dunno, man, but I'm telling you, something's going on with that guy. Doesn't matter to me, but I've seen Grissom watching him and he sure seemed to think Ellison can do what he says he can do. And Ellison hasn't been wrong yet." Nick frowned. "So just think about that for a moment."

Warrick stared at him and then nodded slowly. "I get your drift. All right, I'm still not sure I buy it, but whatever. You want to take those jeans and I'll call Grissom? We'll meet you there."

"You got it." Nick clapped him on the arm and smiled.

His smile faltered slightly as he took in Ellison's glower and the worried expression on Banks's face. If Ellison really had heard their conversation through the door then he probably wouldn't admit it to Nick's face. He decided to play it cool. Besides, he was probably reading too much into their expressions. Nobody had hearing that good.

Ellison was probably just still torqued from the disagreement with Warrick. Nick snorted to himself. Alpha dogs. Every pack had a pecking order and the alphas continually had to prove what rung of the ladder they were on compared to the other dogs. So why was it that he always felt compelled to smooth down the ruffled fur?

He held up the paper bag that contained the blue jeans. "We'll take these over to Greg and have him run an analysis and comparison with the stain on the shirt."

"If this is a match," Banks said and hesitated, restating after a glance at Ellison, "I mean, when your tech confirms the match, we'd like Jim to have the chance to examine all of the victims. Assuming that you still have them here in the morgue?"

"I think the bodies are all still here. None of them have been identified yet. I doubt that Griss'll have a problem with your request."

"When will your Captain Brass be calling in the FBI?" Ellison asked in a soft tone of voice.

Nick glanced at him and was relieved to see that his expression was mild. He shook his head. "He won't. There's no love lost between LVPD and the Fibbies, that's for sure, especially if you count the Lab, too. But the Sheriff might call them. He got a lot of press mileage out of calling in the FBI's Special Task Force the last time we had a serial killer. He's up for re-election and it'd be just like him to figure he could use them for a boost in the polls."

"Doesn't sound like you're any too fond of him," Banks said.

"He's a political animal." Nick shrugged. "So long as the politics work in our favor, I've got no complaints. But there've been too many times when he's compromised or ignored our findings because it suited him politically for me to really like the man."

"Sounds a bit like our Chief of Police, doesn't it Simon?" Ellison's voice held a note of disgust. "I'll bet you as soon as this gets reported up the food chain that you'll have Special Agents crawling all over this place."

Nick nodded. "Wouldn't doubt it. Just so long as one of them isn't Special Agent Rick Culpepper." He grimaced. "I don't think even Sara would cooperate with him this time."

"Even Sara?" Banks raised an eyebrow.

"Uh. Forget I said that."

"Don't worry about it." Ellison sounded faintly amused.

What was wrong with him? Doesn't matter what happens within the group--it stays in the group. You don't go telling tales to outsiders, no matter how comfortable you feel with them. Still, his leftover resentment about Sara's volunteering to act as bait for the FBI during the Strip Strangler case surprised him. He was definitely going to have to think about that one.

Nick stopped in the doorway to the DNA lab, covered his eyes and groaned softly. Greg was...being Greg. He had earphones on and his eyes were tightly closed as he bounced on his stool in sync with the rhythm of the music flooding his ears. His hands beat a rapid tattoo on the edge of the metal table. Nick was thankful for one thing--at least he wasn't singing out loud.

Nick heard a pair of chuckles and he cautiously lowered his hand and opened his eyes. Banks and Ellison were staring at Greg and, for the first time since he'd met them, they both wore wide genuine smiles. Banks smiling was one thing, but Ellison's smile completely transformed his face. It lit him from the inside and made Nick blink. Was that what the guy normally looked like? No matter, he was just glad that they weren't looking at Greg like he was some kind of geeky freak.

Banks caught him staring and shrugged. "He kind of reminds me of Sandburg. I didn't think anyone else had that kind of energy."

"I swear that if I could bottle it I could make a million," Ellison said. His smile faltered and his expression turned somber.

Nick nodded and reached out to grasp Greg's shoulder, prepared for the way he yelped and jumped back. If he hadn't had a firm grip, Greg's stool would have rolled half-way across the lab. Nick grinned down at his startled face and let go of his shoulder.

Greg pulled off the headphones and reached across the table to shut off the MP3 player. "Hey. Whatcha got for me?"

Nick lifted the paper bag. "Blue jeans worn by the latest drug overdose victim. We need you to do an analysis on a stain and compare it to the results from the shirt you ran yesterday."

Greg reached for the bag. "Sure. How soon do you need it?"

"Consider it a priority." Nick turned to see Grissom standing in the doorway, Catherine and Warrick right behind him.

"Okay, boss. Since I've got the results from the shirt, I'll test for that first. If it's a match, you'll have your answer." Greg carefully pulled the jeans out of the bag and set them on the table. "This'll still take a little while."

Grissom nodded. "Call me when you've got the results." He glanced at the others. "I think it's time to regroup."

 

 

 

Everyone except Grissom settled into chairs around the conference table. Grissom leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms.

"We all know that we're working on borrowed time before the Sheriff calls in the FBI. If this evidence ties the two cases together, as I expect it will, there's no way that Brass can avoid reporting it. And that means that our time is limited. I'd expect the FBI to show up by tomorrow afternoon at the latest."

"You mind if I ask how you've managed to avoid it up to now?" Captain Banks asked. "I'd like to try the same technique when I'm faced with this back in Cascade." He smiled and everyone chuckled. It was just enough to break the nervous tension and allow them all to relax.

"Sorry, trade secret," Grissom said with a smile. "Actually, one of the reasons we've dodged it is because we haven't been convinced that the overdose cases were connected. The other reason is because the victims are all obviously drug addicts. Not glamorous enough for the press. Their attitude is, who cares if a couple more junkies OD, even if they OD on the same stuff? Where's the titillation in that?"

There was a knock on the door and Brass came in, closing the door behind him. "Is this a private party?"

"Come on in, Jim. We were just talking about the fact that the FBI will most likely be here by tomorrow."

Brass nodded, his expression sober. "I've talked to the Sheriff. I argued that we have the resources to solve this right here without bringing in the Feds. I even tried to remind him who really solved the Strip Strangler case." He shrugged. "He's not doing so well in the polls."

"And so we have to put up with having the Feds walk all over us again because the Sheriff's looking for points for re-election?" Warrick sounded disgusted.

"It's what it is, Rick. We all know who's really going to solve the case." Brass shrugged.

Grissom frowned. "No withholding evidence. No deliberately being obtuse when asked for information. I want this investigation solved, not bogged down with jurisdictional infighting. Remember one thing." He waited until he had all of their attention. "I can't come up with any reason that makes sense for planting that lookalike in the car accident if not to hide the fact that Blair Sandburg is still alive. We need to work from that assumption. He may have been missing for a few weeks now, but we should treat this as if it's only been hours, because we don't have any way of knowing how much longer he has to live."

Nick glanced at Ellison and had to look away from the raw agony in his expression. How would it feel to be hundreds of miles from Vegas, sitting in a strange police department, talking about how little time Griss or Catherine or Warrick or Sara might have left? His stomach turned at the thought.

"We need to figure out how these two cases are tied together," Brass said. "I'm open to theories." There was silence around the table.

Nick was having a hard time accepting that all of the overdoses were related, let alone how they connected with the Sandburg disappearance. What could have happened for them to intersect? He thought about the picture on the observer's badge and the pictures that Ellison had brought with him. He was only a few years older than Sandburg, but for some reason, maybe the picture, maybe the way the two men from Cascade talked about him, Sandburg seemed much younger.

And all that hair. Nick couldn't think of a time when he'd worn his hair much below his collar, let alone long and wild like that. He glanced at the Cascade cops. How different in bearing they were from their young friend. Nick doubted that anyone would ever mistake Sandburg for a cop. He looked more the type to be using drugs than to be riding with a cop. His eyes widened. God, it couldn't be that simple. Could it?

"Nicky?" Grissom said softly. "You look like you just had an ah-ha moment."

He cleared his throat and quickly explained where his thoughts had led him.

Warrick narrowed his eyes. "So you're saying that the perp grabbed him because he looked like the type to use drugs? That's a little farfetched, isn't it? If that's the reason, why not kill him right then? Why hold onto him?"

Nick shrugged and placed his palms on the table. "I don't know. All I'm saying is, what if the reason he was snatched, and that's what we're assuming, right? Well, what if the reason was that he fit the perp's profile. Or, rather that the perp thought he fit." He frowned. "Still, it is kinda thin, isn't it?" He sat back, deflated. He'd thought he might have something, but once he said it out loud, it didn't sound quite so plausible.

Grissom shook his head. "No, I think you might be on to something."

"Yeah?" Nick raised his eyebrows. "Want to clue us in?"

"What if our guy isn't just grabbing junkies and killing them?" Grissom shoved off from the wall and paced the front of the room. "What if, instead, he's grabbing people who fit a certain profile. Maybe they look like drug users or possible drug users."

Catherine frowned. "And he doesn't kill them why? What is he waiting for? Something specific to happen? But, what, exactly?"

"The bodies we've found all showed evidence of drug use," Warrick said.

"Not the body from the car accident." Banks rubbed his chin.

"Leave that one out of it for a moment," Ellison said. He leaned forward, his expression intent. "It's an anomaly. The victim might only have been chosen because of his superficial resemblance to Sandburg."

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. Okay. So, let's concentrate on the overdose victims and what they had in common. Like I said, they all definitely showed evidence of prolonged drug use."

"They were all underweight," Nick added.

"They were all men." Catherine shrugged when they looked at her. "Well, they were."

"What else?" Grissom asked.

Ellison shook his head. "I haven't had a chance to examine the other victims so I don't have anything to add."

Grissom raised his eyebrows. "We can fix that right now. Warrick, you want to take Detective Ellison back to the morgue? I'll call Robbins and have him get prepared for you. Meet us back here when you're done." He turned to Banks and asked, "Do you want to go with them or stay and work with us?"

Banks glanced at Ellison, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Nick exchanged a look with Warrick and wondered what that was all about.

"I'll stay here, if it's all right. Jim's a big boy. He's handled plenty of autopsies on his own before." Banks grinned.

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Simon." The words were sarcastic, but Nick noted that the tone of voice was most definitely respectful.


	20. Chapter 20

A little over an hour later, they were all once again in the conference room. They now had confirmation that all of the bodies had a nearly undetectable needle prick on the upper arm. The only other thing that seemed to be similar was the way each body had been treated to try to make it appear as though the victim was living on the streets. Filthy hands and face, but no dirt under the fingernails. Their clothes were old, but clean and mended.

"It still doesn't make sense to me." Catherine shot a glance at Nick. "Sorry Nick."

He shook his head. "No. I'm with you. It fits and yet, it doesn't fit. Where's the why? It all seems so pointless."

"It's not pointless to our killer. Something in this pattern makes sense to him. We just have to figure out what it is." Grissom sat down at the head of the table. "And we've got less than 24 hours to do that before we're going to be told to turn everything we've got over to the FBI."

Ellison shook his head. "I hate to say this, because I really want to find the answer, but I'm with Catherine. This doesn't make sense. Not when you look at from the standpoint of explaining it as the work of a typical serial killer, if you get my drift."

"What is the killer getting out of these killings?" Grissom asked. "Is he trying to show that appearances aren't just superficial, but that they're a true reflection of the inner personality?" He frowned.

"Pretty thin." Brass shook his head. "Why just dump the body? And not even in a similar location or manner? I thought serial killers tried to recreate the same event over and over."

Grissom nodded. "Typically, that's what happens. In this case, the method is the same. But if we're right and the killer kidnaps the victim weeks before killing him, why the elaborate setup? What pattern is he trying to make?"

"We're talking in circles." Catherine shook her head.

"And getting nowhere." Ellison frowned.

"Follow the evidence," Nick muttered.

"What?" Grissom gazed at him.

"Follow the evidence. Isn't that what you always say?"

"Go on."

"Look at what's the same. They were all killed the same way." He glanced around the table and raised his eyebrows. Surely he wasn't the only one to see it? Catherine's eyes widened.

"Pharmaceutical grade barbiturates." She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling in appreciation. "Who would have easy access to that kind of drug?"

"Doctors, nurses--a lot of people associated with the health care profession." Grissom nodded. "Good catch, Nicky."

Nick felt his face flush from the unexpected praise and he ducked his head.

"Those injections weren't the work of someone with a casual familiarity with needles. They were the work of someone with knowledge, someone who's had practice." Ellison nodded, his expression turned inward. He glanced at Grissom and asked, "What about someone with a background in Medical Research?"

"That would work. Could be a doctor or it could just be a lab assistant with medical training," Grissom replied slowly, his gaze never leaving Ellison's face. "You think this is a likely theory for some reason?"

Ellison's face went pale and he nodded once, a jerky motion that echoed his discomfort. "Yeah, I do."

Greg Sanders popped his head into the conference room, drawing all eyes to him. His nervous gaze darted from Nick to Warrick to Catherine and finally settled on Grissom.

"Greg, unless you've got something urgent, you don't want to be here right now." Grissom's voice was firm.

"I think you're going to want to see this." Greg had several sheets of paper in his hand and he held them out to Grissom.

Nick frowned. Greg was definitely good at what he did, but it was rare that he wasn't trying to lighten things up with a joke. The expression on his face was deadly serious and there was no hint of fun about him at all. What could leach away his innate good humor like that?

Grissom shuffled through the printouts and frowned. "What am I looking at here, Greg?"

Greg placed a hand on the table, bent over Grissom's shoulder and pointed at one of the sheets. "That's the DNA analysis from the first victim." He pulled out more sheets and laid them side by side next to the first one. "These are from the other vics."

"All right. And?" Grissom glanced up at Greg and raised an eyebrow.

"Well, see, once I started comparing them, something didn't look right in the initial reports to me." He frowned slightly as if he wasn't sure just what had bothered him. "So, I thought I'd do a more extensive analysis. These aren't the kinds of test that are necessary for forensic identification." He glanced at Brass, a guilty expression crossing his face.

"Go on." Brass's voice was bland.

Greg swallowed hard. "These are the results of a test I ran that looks for, um, other anomalies in the DNA." He shot a quick glance at Ellison and then back at the sheets of paper. "Look here and here and here."

Grissom studied each sheet and then raised his gaze to Greg's. For a long moment they stared at each other in silence and then Greg nodded slightly.

"You're sure about this?" Grissom tapped a finger on the final piece of paper.

Greg nodded solemnly. "I ran the test three times. I didn't see any variation in the results, so I went back and re-ran the blood samples and found that." He stepped back from the table and crossed his arms, but kept his gaze on Grissom.

"What is it?" Nick asked.

Grissom sat back in his chair, plopped his elbow on the arm and rested his cheek in his hand. "Greg found something unexpected in the blood of the victims. At first glance, it looks like some kind of virus."

"Virus?" Banks cocked his head and frowned. "Like the flu? That kind of virus?"

"Not exactly. It's similar to something that Catherine and I ran into about a year ago." Grissom glanced at her. "Remember the Johanson case?"

She shrugged. "The little girl who had Severe Combined Immunodeficiency Disorder? How is that case relevant to this?"

"The parents wanted her to undergo experimental gene therapy, remember?"

"I remember that they killed the doctor who denied their daughter treatment."

"They also stole a sample of the treatment."

"That's right." Catherine shook her head. "Still not seeing the relevance."

Grissom stared down at the table. "During that case, I had Greg run a test on the stolen vial of serum. The results looked a lot like this." He softly blew out a breath and raised a troubled gaze. "We're not talking about a new form of antibiotic or an exotic pain killer. The serum in the Johanson case was a retrovirus used for gene therapy--the modification of original genetic material into something new."

Nick exchanged a shocked glance with Warrick.

"I'm no scientist," Banks said with a frown, "so you're going to have to spell it out for me. What's the significance of finding this retrovirus stuff in their blood?"

Grissom sighed softly. "It's possible that someone, perhaps the killer, may be using human beings for the purpose of medical experimentation."

"God." The word was exhaled softly, but Nick glanced at Ellison. The man was so pale that he appeared chalk white.

"Are you all right?" he asked and hoped he could move fast enough to catch him if Ellison took a nose dive.

"Jim?" Banks voice was low and deep and full of concern. "That's what you dreamt, isn't it?"

There was that nightmare stuff again. They didn't really believe that Ellison had learned something important in these nightmares of his, did they? Nick turned and saw Grissom watching Ellison again, with that peculiar _you're the only thing that's important_ intensity that he got sometimes.

"Do you know something about all of this, Detective Ellison?" Grissom asked. his voice gentle.

Ellison shook his head mutely. His lips were pressed firmly together and he still looked as though he was as likely to pass out as he was to speak.

"Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Go get the detective a bottle of cold water, would you?" Grissom never took his eyes off Ellison.

"Uh. Sure." Greg backed towards the door. "Be back in a flash."

He was as good as his word, returning with the water before they'd had a chance to ask any further questions. Banks twisted off the cap, forcing Ellison to take it and down a couple of swallows. The color slowly came back into his face.

"Thanks, Greg," Grissom said. "Let us know if you find out anything else, okay?"

He looked like he wanted to argue, but finally said, "Okay."

"And Greg? Let's keep the fact of these tests just between those of us in this room for now. All right?"

Greg nodded and left the conference room with only a single look back over his shoulder.

"Now, let me ask you again." Grissom stared at Ellison. "Do you know something about all of this that we don't?"

Ellison turned a pleading gaze on Banks who shrugged minutely and spread his hands as if to say the decision wasn't his to make. He swept the others at the table with his gaze, as if searching for something. Finally he turned to Grissom and shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "I don't know anything useful. I just have a-a thing about people being used as human guinea pigs."

Nick could see that Grissom wasn't buying it, but instead of the expected cross examination, he merely nodded and turned to Brass. Not for the first time, Nick wondered what the hell was going on between Grissom and Ellison.

"This may change the entire complexion of the case."

"Why?" Brass raised his eyebrows. "Okay, so we know that there's some weird medical thing that he's doing to them. But all that does is help identify his ritual, right?"

Grissom shook his head. "No, I mean, we may not have a serial killer on our hands after all."

"What?" Banks frowned. "You're going to have to explain that."

"I'm beginning to think that these murders may be the work of the same perpetrator, but that he's not a serial killer."

They took a few moments to try to make sense of that bit of information. Nick was just beginning to feel his way around the edges when Brass spoke.

"I'm sure I'm not the only one who's confused, but I guess I'm the one who's going to admit it. I'm not following you, cousin."

"I think that there's something bigger going on." Grissom's voice held a hint of excitement, the way it got when he was close to cracking a case.

"Bigger?" Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Bigger than murdering five men? Six if we count the man in the car?"

Grissom nodded. "I think those men may only be the tip of an iceberg that also includes Mr. Sandburg."

"Okay, I'll bite," Catherine said. "Just what is it that you think is going on?"

"I think that someone, probably several people, in fact, are running a coordinated medical laboratory somewhere in Las Vegas for the express purpose of performing illicit drug trials on human subjects. I think this is being done against the will of the subjects and that when something goes wrong, they're killing them and dumping the bodies--trying to make it look in each case like just another junkie dying of an overdose. We're talking mass murderer, not serial killer."

"Good God." Nick couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Brass so shocked. "You're not serious."

"Yes. I am." He gazed down the table at Ellison and said softly, "And I think Detective Ellison had already come to the same conclusion. Hadn't you, Detective?"

Ellison nodded and dropped his head into his hands, bracing his elbows on the table. His voice was muffled. "As soon as you mentioned the word retrovirus. Those damn nightmares. I've been afraid that Blair's being held in some lab somewhere and that he's being tortured. But I didn't know why." He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed in his pale face. "Do you know what the retrovirus is meant to do?"

"No. Our equipment's good, but not that good. We could guess, buth there's no real way to know if we'd guess correctly. After all, we don't know who is doing this or if they're any good at what they're doing or just some psychotic geek who thinks no one listens to his great ideas. And remember, this is all just a theory." Grissom shook his head, his expression sympathetic. "Sorry. You probably didn't need to hear that."

Ellison shook his head. "Please. Be honest. It's the only way we'll know that we're all on the same page."

"So what do we do now?" Brass rose to his feet and crossed his arms. "We can't just look up Illicit Medical Research Lab in the phone book. Any ideas where we start?"

Warrick leaned forward. "What about asking medical supply houses about any large purchases they may have had in the last few months aside from the usual they get from hospitals and the like? That might get us something."

"And what about checking on sales of the barbiturate that was found in the victims? Maybe we can find a pattern there. Oh and maybe check with Narcotics about any information they may have on doctors suspected of dealing in heroin or coke." Catherine shrugged. "It's a long shot, but worth pursuing."

"Yeah. And not just the barbiturate." Nick frowned. "Aren't there a couple of manufacturers that supply varieties of retrovirus for experimentation and gene therapy? We could check on sales within Las Vegas."

Grissom nodded. "I'm sorry, Jim, but those are about the best suggestions that I'd come up with as well. If there'd been evidence that pointed to a location, I'd have told you about it long before this. In the meantime, we follow up and see if we can get an ID on any of the victims."

"What can we do to help?" Banks asked. He was watching Ellison with a concerned look on his face.

Brass shook his head. "I'm afraid there's nothing right now that I can legally have you do. I'll have my people make the calls and gather the intel." He shot a glance at Grissom. "We should touch base before we have to talk to the Feds."

Grissom nodded. "How about we meet back here in 18 hours?"

They all rose to their feet, though Nick noted that Ellison seemed a bit shaky. He was about to ask if he could help, but Captain Banks was there with a hand under his friend's elbow. Nick nodded and turned away, hoping that Banks would insist on taking Ellison back to their hotel. The guy looked ready to collapse.

He'd go bug Greg for more information about the retrovirus. Nick couldn't quite shake the awful thought that he was going to need to understand what it was all about.


	21. Chapter 21

"Simon, I told you I'm fine." Jim stood at the window of the common room of their suite and stared out at the lights of the Strip.

"Yeah, well, you don't look fine, Jim. But I'm not going to argue with you." Simon shrugged when Jim glanced over his shoulder. "We have to come up with a plan. If we wait for the Feds to get here, we're going to be screwed out of this investigation so fast it'll make our heads spin. You know it and I know it."

He turned from the window and shook his head. "What do you want from me, Simon? I don't know where to start any more than Grissom and his crew."

Simon reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a leather cigar case. He deliberately slid the sleeve off and upended the case to spill a lone cigar into his hand. He replaced the sleeve and returned the case to his pocket. He rolled the cigar under his nose and narrowed his eyes.

"Don't give me that bull, Detective. We represent Cascade's finest. We don't need any fancy forensic tools or machines. With your sentinel abilities we should be able to track down the location of this medical lab. Now, what would Sandburg tell you to do, if he were here?" He raised an eyebrow and stuck the cigar, unlit, into his mouth.

Jim wanted to protest that that was the problem--Sandburg _wasn't_ there to tell him what to do--but he didn't. Hell, maybe Simon was right. He'd been a good detective before Sandburg came along and he was still a good detective. The problem was deciding how to use his senses. He closed his eyes and tried to hear Sandburg's voice in his mind.

A few minutes later, his eyes flew open and he stared at Simon in surprise. "Wouldn't you think that the most likely place to put an operation like this would be somewhere where it could hide in plain sight?"

"Such as?"

"Such as close enough to a legitimate medical complex that it would be ignored? Maybe thought to either be an annex of some sort, or more likely one of those independent places that try to take advantage of locations like that. Probably has a name that has a medical sound to it, but that would discourage patients from mistaking it for any kind of treatment center."

"So, do you want to start going through the phone book?"

Jim snorted and shook his head. "Not a chance. We don't know the area well enough and this is one time that if we do find what we're looking for that I don't want to go in without backup." He gazed at Simon, his expression serious. "I don't want to have to worry about anything but Sandburg when we find him. Simon, I'm not even sure if I'll be able to be aware of much else."

"When we find him, you just concentrate on making sure Sandburg's okay. I'll make sure your back is covered."

Jim nodded.

"So, shall I call Captain Brass? See if we can get this moving?" Simon asked.

"Let's do it."

 

 

 

Less than 30 minutes later a patrol car dropped them off at the entrance to the Crime Lab. Warrick waited for them at the front desk to escort them back to Grissom's office.

"Sounds like you've thought up a viable search option," Warrick said as they walked through the hallways of the lab.

"We think so." Simon smiled slightly.

"Let's just say I was pretty highly motivated." Jim shrugged.

"I hear that."

Jim exchanged a glance with Simon, but didn't bother to explain to the CSI just what they found amusing about his comment.

Grissom and Catherine were in Grissom's office. Catherine smiled and patted Jim on the arm as she walked out the door.

"Got another case I need to handle. I'm off to collect Sara. Seems crime just doesn't stop in Vegas." She shrugged and said to him, her voice serious, "Good luck."

"Thanks," Jim smiled slightly.

Grissom walked around his desk. "We have some preliminary information on our inquiries. Based on that and what you suggested, we've got a map up in the conference room with the likely spots circled. We'll start with the first three and then move out from there. Brass has three teams ready to go, so we can search simultaneously. We just have to decide which team goes where."

As they walked into the room, Jim focused on the map tacked to the cork board across from the door. Something about two of the sites circled in red struck him as being wrong. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, but when he considered them, he found himself dismissing them almost instantly. His attention fixed on the third site.

As he walked closer to the map, something inside him clicked as if to say, _this is it_. Jim reached out a shaking hand and put a finger in the center of the small circle. He glanced at Simon and nodded.

"I want to be part of the search team for this site."

"We," added Simon. "We both want to be there."

Grissom nodded and smiled faintly. "Of course. I'll just let Brass know that that's the site that team number 1 will be searching."

Jim wasn't aware that Grissom had walked away until Simon poked him. "Stop that, Jim."

"Huh?" He turned around and surveyed the room. The bustle that was present only a few minutes before was absent. He, Simon and Warrick were alone in the room. "What'd I do?"

"You weren't doing anything," Simon said in a low voice. "That's the problem."

"Oh. Sorry."

Jim didn't have the words to explain what he'd experienced while staring at the map and so he let Simon believe that he'd been zoned. That's not what it was, but he was damned if he knew just what to call it.

All through this ordeal he'd been doing what he normally did when the weird sentinel shit impinged on his life, pushing it to the side to deal with later. Later being one of those relative times that he figured just never had to become now. The thing was, the more he accepted the weirdness, the more he embraced it, the closer he felt he was to finding Sandburg.

When he'd stared at the map, he'd just known that the two sites were the wrong locations and that the third site was where they needed to be. He had no facts to base his knowledge on, it wasn't even a gut feeling. He just knew. And the more he allowed himself to be open and accepting, the more he felt like he was being drawn to that circled site. As though he could sense Sandburg from here, the distance between them meaningless. His awareness, his senses, were changing, expanding, becoming more somehow. He refused to worry about it. Sandburg would understand what was happening to him. Sandburg would be able to explain it.

Jim stood next to Simon and as he waited for the word that they were leaving, his body vibrated with energy. He thought he might explode with the need to get moving, to find his partner, to _be_ there.

Simon kept shooting him concerned looks from the corner of his eye, but he didn't say anything and Jim was grateful for that. He wasn't in any shape to hold a conversation. Whatever this was, it was bigger than anything he'd ever experienced. And it was growing. He hoped that Simon would pick up that something unusual was happening with him and not try to force an explanation.

The door opened and the CSI crew, along with Captain Brass, filed into the conference room. They all wore bullet proof vests and Grissom carried two extra vests in his hands. He handed them to Simon and with a slightly concerned look at Jim, moved away, giving them a few moments of privacy.

"Jim?" Simon's voice was soft. "You need to put on your vest." He held out the familiar black garment expectantly.

He carefully reached for it, his fingers grasping the rough fabric gingerly. The contact sent tingles of awareness through him. He fumbled with the buckles and finally managed to get the vest situated properly.

"Are you okay?" Simon asked and raised an eyebrow.

He nodded. When Simon frowned at him, he shrugged, trying to convey that he was all right. Hoping that his friend wouldn't push him to answer, he faced Brass and waited for their instructions.

Brass unrolled a closeup aerial photo of the area that they would be searching. There were three possible buildings on the block. He had a judge standing by ready to sign a search warrant for one of the buildings if they could find something suspicious outside. Otherwise, they'd end up having to move on to site number 4, which was already circled on a second map that hadn't been posted on the wall yet.

"All right. It's after working hours for these places. We're trying to get hold of the building owners for permission to search, but that will take time that we don't have. So, here's what we're going to do. I've got a team made up of uniforms and detectives. They're going to do an exterior sweep of these three buildings. If they find something incriminating or even slightly suspicious, Judge Tarrington has agreed to sign a warrant and we'll have it in hand in about 10 minutes." He glanced at Grissom, a serious expression on his face. "I want you and your CSIs--and Banks and Ellison--to stay back until we have the warrant in hand."

Grissom nodded. As everyone filed out of the room, he stayed behind to wait for Simon and Jim to leave so that he could roll up the map and take it with them. Jim was drawn to the aerial photo. He stared at the three buildings and held his hand out over each of them, keeping it about five inches above the photo. He wasn't sure why he did it, but he felt as though he could hear Sandburg's voice whispering in his head to _just go with the feeling, man_ and so he did.

He felt nothing as his hand hovered over the first building and he moved it over the next one. Still nothing. He was starting to feel a bit silly, but he moved it yet again and let it hover over the third building, the one at the far end of the block. A strange warmth radiated from his palm and rushed up his arm. He flushed and yanked his hand away. He blinked and stared at Simon and Grissom, unable to describe what he'd just felt.

Grissom's eyes widened slightly. "You felt something about that building, didn't you?" He held up a hand. "That's okay. You don't have to tell me."

Jim nodded, grateful that Grissom was accepting what was happening without demanding an explanation. He'd deal with the questions that were sure to come later. Now he just had to get to Sandburg. Before it was too late.

 

 

 

The command post was a large LVPD van, set up a couple of blocks away from their target on a dark side street. Jim stood still amidst the controlled chaos, held in place by Simon's firm grip on his arm. Part of him was grateful for the care, another part of him--a deeper, more primal part--wanted to throw off the restraint and fade away into the darkness to make his own personal reconnaissance.

His senses stretched and warped around him, hearing and seeing and smelling what was out there, cataloguing and discarding the information received as irrelevant. All done without his volition. The rational part of him, the part that was grateful for Simon's presence at his side, stayed calmly out of the way while his senses worked.

He noted Grissom speaking with Brass, unfurling the aerial photo and pointing to the building that Jim had selected. Their discussion was brief, but intense, and they both glanced at Jim more than once. He ignored them, didn't even bother to try to listen to their conversation. It wasn't important. He knew what had to be done and nothing would deter him much longer from simply doing it.

Jim nearly sighed in relief when Brass gathered everyone together and gave them their instructions. He had no intention of remaining this far away from the action. Simon seemed to be of the same mind, because he tugged at Jim, gently pulling him along in the wake of the CSIs. At the very least, they would be close when the warrant arrived. Jim felt an odd certainty that they would find enough evidence to allow for the warrant to be signed.

They halted across the street from the building in question. Once again, Jim's senses stretched out, beyond his conscious control, though he knew what he was hoping to find. He heard and ignored the physical sounds of the various searchers--he'd already catalogued and dismissed them earlier--and went deeper than he'd ever attempted before, searching for signs of life within the silent structure. Or, more precisely, searching for the one heartbeat, out of all others, that he desperately wanted to hear.

Jim stiffened and then tried to pull out of Simon's grip when he finally heard it, so faint as to almost not be there at all. He struggled vigorously, ignoring Simon's call for help and the additional arms that held him back. Finally, he stopped struggling, panting from his efforts, still ignoring the voices buzzing around him. If he had to wait, he'd wait.

Warm hands clasped his cheeks and he felt his face being dragged down slightly, his gaze meeting the concerned blue eyes of Gil Grissom. Grissom's mouth was moving and Jim frowned, forcing himself to concentrate.

"Detective Ellison?" Grissom's voice was slightly hoarse, as though he'd been shouting. "Are you with us?"

Jim nodded once, jerkily.

"Good." Grissom looked relieved. "I want you to concentrate, now, Detective. Your friend's in there, isn't he?"

Again Jim nodded and managed to whisper a single word, "Blair."

Someone else muttered, "How does he know?"

Jim ignored it, just as he ignored the hands still holding him, focusing his attention on Grissom. He'd gone too far, he thought. Let his senses go too wild. He had to show that he was in control, that whatever was going on with him was over now. Sandburg needed him and he couldn't let him down. With each passing moment and each additional coherent thought, he felt more and more of himself return. Like he'd been flying apart and now those fragmented bits of himself were settling back into his body, bringing back weight and stability and control.

Finally, he rocked back on his heels. He knew the moment when Grissom accepted that he was all right. He dropped his hands from Jim's face and took a step back.

"Sorry about that," Jim said, his voice rough. "It won't happen again."

Grissom shook his head. "It can't. I won't pretend to understand everything that's going on here, but we all need you to be with us now. If you can't guarantee that, then I'll have one of the officers handcuff you to that light post over there for the duration of the search. You'll be a hazard to all of us if you go off half-cocked like that."

Jim nodded and let Simon drag him away a few steps.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Simon voice was low and he sounded angrier and more scared than Jim could ever remember. "If you tell me this is more of that sentinel shit, I think I might just belt you one."

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Simon. I honestly don't understand what's been happening with me. I feel like the closer we get to finding Blair, the more that my senses are going crazy. And not in a way that I've ever experienced before. It's like they're somehow...enhanced." He shrugged apologetically. "I know that's a shitty description, but that's how it feels. And, it's like I don't have any control over what happens when they get like that."

Simon's lips pressed together into a thin line. He pushed his glasses up and rubbed at his eyes. "Well, I don't like it. So stop it." He glared at Jim. "God damn it, Jim. You can't do this to me. You're lucky that these folks are following Grissom's lead or I'd be trying to talk them out of sending you some place where you could have a nice padded room to rest in."

"Blair's in that building, Simon. I could hear his heartbeat."

"What?" Simon's eyes widened and he glanced at the darkened two story building. "Are you sure? Is that possible?"

"I'm positive. It was Blair. But it was faint. Not like it was far away, but like it wasn't beating very hard." Jim swallowed hard. "He's in there, he may be dying and I'm just standing out here doing nothing. That's what set me off, Simon."

"Damn." The word was heartfelt. Simon took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes. "All right. Stay here, you understand? I'm going to talk to Grissom." He started to walk away, but Jim grabbed his arm.

"No need. They've found something in the dumpster. Brass is on the phone to the Judge." He cocked his head and smiled, a feral expression that had Simon rearing back in reaction. "The judge just agreed to fax the search warrant in addition to having it hand delivered."

"Thank God," Simon breathed as he briefly closed his eyes.

"Yeah. Let's go." Jim moved decisively, fluidly slipping through the search group in order to stand with Brass as he waited for the magic paper that would provide the open sesame to the building that held Sandburg within its bowels.


	22. Chapter 22

What the hell was going on with Ellison? The man was damn strong, he'd give him that. When Banks had called out for help in that desperate voice, Nick had rushed in with Warrick and tried to restrain him. They were both strong guys, worked out regularly and all, and their strength combined with Banks almost hadn't been enough to keep Ellison from charging into that building.

What had freaked Nick almost worse than that was the low growl that he was sure he'd heard coming from Ellison. The sound had made the hairs on the back of Nick's neck stand up. He was positive that he wasn't the only one who'd heard it, but Warrick wouldn't meet his eyes. At that moment he believed every rumor he'd ever heard about people who participated in covert ops. This was one man he never wanted to piss off and then meet in a dark alley.

And what was Grissom thinking? Nick had been amazed at the way his boss had handled the whole thing. He'd been thinking padded cell, but Griss obvious saw something completely different from everyone else. Nick smiled to himself. That was just like Grissom. Ask everyone in a room if they think they could have committed a murder and they'd answer yes, no or maybe, except Grissom. He'd tell you that you'd asked the wrong question.

He watched as Ellison and Banks moved up until they stood right next to Brass. Grissom grabbed Nick's arm and pulled him off to one side. He went without a protest, wondering what was up.

"Nick," Grissom whispered, even though they weren't close enough to anyone to be overheard.

"What's up, Griss?" He kept his voice low.

"We're about to hear that the warrant's been issued. The cops will go in first. When we're allowed in the building, I want you to handle something for me." Grissom's voice was serious and he held Nick's gaze.

"Of course. Whatever you want, you know I'll do it."

"Thank you. I have no doubt that this will be a crime scene. I'll have to coordinate gathering the evidence. While we're in there, you'll have one job." He held up his index finger. "This is important, Nicky."

Nick nodded. What was so important that he had to pull him aside?

"I want you to stick to Detective Ellison like glue. I don't care where he goes, you stay with him." He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response.

"What about making sure that all of the evidence is--"

"We'll get the evidence," Grissom interrupted. "And you'll be part of that eventually. I'm deadly serious about this, Nick. What I'm asking you to do might just be the most important job any of us will do tonight. Stick to Ellison. Do whatever you need to do, but stick to him. Got it?"

No, he didn't get it. At least he didn't get the why, but he was pretty sure Grissom wasn't going to cough that up right then, so he merely nodded slowly.

"Good." Grissom looked satisfied. "I knew I could count on you." He clasped Nick's arm.

Nick was suddenly glad that it was dark out, because he could feel his face flush. He knew he shouldn't be so damn glad when he got this kind of attention from Griss, but he couldn't help it. He'd acknowledged a long time ago to himself that he still craved Grissom's approval. While he may have let Grissom think that he'd moved on from that, all he'd really done was push it deep inside and keep it from showing. But it was the little moments like these, more than anything else, that kept him working for more.

They joined the others and edged closer to Brass. What was waiting for them inside that building? Would it be a hunt through paperwork to find incriminating files? Would there be physical evidence of the murders? Or would there be less than nothing and the whole thing turn into a giant snipe hunt?

"Listen up," Brass called out. His voice was low, but it carried easily. "We've got our warrant for the MedLab Services building. This is not a general purpose warrant, people, so remember that. We're limited to searching the building looking for evidence related to the drug overdose cases.  I was just informed that the building owner's representative has been served with a copy of the warrant. However, since the building isn't open at this time and we're also looking for a missing person, we are authorized to enter the building now."

Brass gestured at a technician carrying a lock breaker. He walked up to the glass doors of the building, inserted the tool and removed the lock cylinder, allowing the door to swing open. Five kevlar-clad officers entered the building with guns drawn.

Nick glanced at Ellison out of the corner of his eye. The man was nearly vibrating in place. He surreptitiously inched closer to Ellison and Banks, afraid that he might lose track of them when they were finally allowed inside. He'd agreed to stick to Ellison like glue and, by God, that's just what he was going to do.

The walkie-talkie in Brass's hand crackled into life, startling them all. The message that came across stunned everyone into immobility.

"Captain Brass! My God, sir, we're finding--" The voice on the other end ceased abruptly.

"Carson!" Brass yelled. "Damn it, Carson, what's going on in there."

"Sorry sir." Carson's voice sounded strained. "Sir, there are bodies. Dead bodies. We don't know how many. It doesn't look like there's anyone alive in here."

"Oh my God." Nick didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Warrick turned to him, a stunned expression on his face.

"Carson, make sure the building's secure."

They waited in tense silence until the all clear came in. Brass turned to the CSIs, a bleak expression on his face. "Looks like you're on."

Grissom nodded. "Let's do this by the book, people. Catherine, Warrick. You're with me."

Catherine shot Nick a strange look and nodded. They picked up their kits and walked across the road to enter the medical building behind a group of police officers.

Nick turned to Banks and Ellison. Banks was having trouble keeping Ellison from following. Time to do something about that. Grissom seemed to think that Ellison would be allowed in as soon as the CSIs were, so he might as well take advantage of that.

"Captain Banks? I've been assigned to you and Detective Ellison, sir. Shall we go on in?" He smiled slightly at the relieved look on Banks's face.

"Thank you, son. Come on, Jim. Let's go get your partner."

Ellison nodded and took off at a run for the MedLab building.

"Damn it. I've got to stay with him." Nick sprinted after Ellison, with Banks right on his heals.

They entered the building in time to see Ellison push open the doors to the stairwell. Nick could hear voices coming from down the hallways, as well as the sounds of more than one person losing his dinner. He ignored the distractions and stayed on the detective's tail. They jogged up a flight of stairs and through the exit door. Nick and Banks stepped out into a hallway just as Ellison came to an abrupt halt.

Banks wheezed softly next to him, his hands braced on his knees. "Damn," he muttered, "I've got to cut down on those cigars." He grabbed Ellison's arm and straightened.

Nick frowned. The only illumination in the dark hallway came from the red exit signs hanging from the ceiling. It looked like every other medical office he'd ever been in--industrial carpeting, ugly paintings on the walls, industrial doors, some with portholes, some without--nothing to distinguish it or to indicate what type of medical practice was performed there.

Ellison stepped up to the third door in the hallway and looked through the porthole window. His voice had an odd detached quality to it when he spoke. "We're too late for him. Just like in my dream." He turned and slowly walked down the hall, Banks following.

Nick peered through the window. It was too dark to see anything. He turned on his flashlight and shined it into the room. A man's body lay on the floor, curled in an uncomfortable looking position. He wasn't moving, suggesting that he was dead. The expression frozen on his face said that he'd died in agony.

"Shit." Nick pulled out his walkie-talkie as he followed Ellison and Banks. "Grissom?"

"What have you got?"

"We're upstairs. There's a body, male, in the third room on the left from the stairway. The door's locked and we couldn't get in. He's not moving; I believe he's dead. We're moving further down the hallway."

"Understood. We've got our hands full down here, so it may be awhile before we get up there."

"All right. I'll let you know if we find anything else. Gotta go." Nick shoved the walkie-talkie into its holster and jogged to catch up to his charges.

"I was here, Simon. This is my nightmare." Ellison pointed at a door just ahead. "Blair's in there. I know it. I can hear his heartbeat."

"Be careful, Jim." Banks sounded deadly serious.

Ellison reached for the doorknob and Nicked barked out, "Stop!" When they both turned to him, he said, "You need to put on gloves. Preserve the evidence." He dug into his pockets and held out two pair of the thick latex gloves that they all wore at crime scenes. He pulled his own pair onto his hands and nodded at them as they did the same.

Ellison reached for the knob, his expression fearful. When it turned easily in his hand, he nearly lost his balance. He'd expected the door to be locked, Nick realized. That must have been some nightmare. The sight that greeted them when they entered the room convinced Nick that no nightmare could be any worse than this reality.

A man lay strapped down to a metal gurney. His body was naked from the waist up, his ribs showing starkly against the skin of his chest and his stomach slightly concave where it should merely have been flat. His face was turned away and his long curly hair was lank.

Nick closed his eyes in sorrow when Banks gasped. This had to be Sandburg. They were too late. Too damn late. Nick's eyes flew open in disbelief when Ellison spoke urgently.

"Simon! Help me take these restraints off him. Hang in there, Chief. We're going to get you help, you hear me?" Ellison was already undoing the restraints on his wrists.

"Jim--"

"Damn it, Simon! He's alive!" Ellison glared at Banks. "I can hear his heartbeat. Do you understand? It's faint, but it's there."

"God!" Banks complied with Ellison's original request with alacrity, undoing the restraints on Sandburg's legs.

Nick shook his head at the futility of their belief and reached for his walkie-talkie ready to push the button and tell Grissom that they'd found Sandburg's body. A low moan from the gurney halted his thumb on the button.

"That's it, Blair," Ellison soothed as he smoothed the hair from Sandburg's face. "I'm here now, Chief. It's all over. You're going to be all right."

Sandburg gave another low moan and moved his head as if trying to get closer to Ellison's hand.

Nick pushed the button, feeling as though he was moving in slow motion. "Grissom! We need a paramedic team up here on the second floor ASAP! We've found Sandburg and he's alive, but he doesn't look good."

"They're on their way. Good work Nicky!"

Nick could hear Warrick shouting questions in the background just before Grissom released the talk button and he smiled. He turned back to the two men hovering over Sandburg and promptly lost that smile. Sandburg was in bad shape; they could still lose him.

Ellison glanced up with tears in his eyes, looking like he'd just won the biggest jackpot at the biggest casino in Las Vegas. There was something indefinably softer about his face as he glanced down at Sandburg, as though the man on the gurney was more precious to him than Nick could ever imagine.

Nick glanced at Banks and was surprised to see tears on his cheeks. He'd known that the friendship between these three was something special, but until that moment he hadn't realized just how deeply these men cared for one another. He started to turn away, not in embarrassment, but in an attempt to allow them a modicum of privacy. His gaze caught on a small object, half hidden under the edge of the counter against the wall next to the gurney.

He got down on his knees and reached under the counter to gingerly grasp the object by the end closest to him. It was a used syringe with a small amount of a clear liquid still inside. He carefully held the syringe upright by the edges of the plunger so as not to disturb any latent fingerprints nor lose any of the liquid.

With his free hand, he opened the velcro tab on the largest pocket of his vest and pulled out a heavy paper envelope and placed it on the counter. From another pocket he snagged a DNA sampler and pulled the protective sealer off the end of the swab. He slipped the plastic cap over the end of the needle, creating a temporary protection against the needle poking out of the paper. He slid everything into the envelope, sealed it, then filled out an evidence tag and attached it to the front.

Noises in the hallway announced the arrival of the paramedics. Nick was surprised to see Warrick along with the EMTs.

"Grissom sent me to do the evidence collection," Warrick said when Nick frowned at him. His gaze strayed to Sandburg and his eyes widened. "Griss thought Ellison and Banks would probably want to go to the hospital. You're supposed to stay with them. When you're allowed, gather whatever evidence you can from him." He nudged his chin in Sandburg's direction.

"All right." He held out the evidence bag. "I found this half-way under the counter there. It's a syringe and it's still got something in it. It might've been injected in him and then dropped."

The paramedics prepared to transfer Sandburg from the metal table to their gurney. Ellison still hovered, insisting that they be careful and looking grim each time Sandburg groaned in pain.

"What's going on downstairs?" Nick glanced at Warrick and his eyes widened at his bleak expression.

"Man, you do not want to know. It's worse than anything I've ever seen." He shook his head. "Not a lot of blood and gore, but Jesus, there are a lot of bodies. From what I've seen, it looks like this place was just abandoned. Grissom's called Catherine and Sara off their case and he may be calling in day shift, too. Be glad you came up here instead. I'm gonna have nightmares for a long time about this one."

Nick swallowed heavily. If Grissom was resorting to calling in Eckley's crew then things were dire indeed. He was suddenly thankful for the assignment to stick with Ellison and that it was going to continue on to the hospital.

"He may be the only one left alive in this place." Warrick shook his head and shivered slightly. "That's got to be some kind of miracle."

"What the hell went on here, Warrick?" Nick frowned.

"I don't know, but whatever it was it must have been hell for the people that went through it. You should see the looks on the faces of the bodies we've found so far." A haunted expression crossed his face and he shook his head. "On second thought, no, you don't want to see them. I wish to God I hadn't seen them."


	23. Chapter 23

Jim sat in a hard plastic chair in the waiting room of the University Hospital ER. Every sense was trained on the small examination room just down the hall where a team of doctors and nurses worked on Sandburg. He was aware, in a detached way, that Simon sat next to him and that Nick stood a couple feet away.

His muscles reacted with each bit of news he gleaned from the doctors' terse instructions. Simon watched him like a hawk in case he decided to head for the examining room again. The medical staff had been adamant that Jim was not allowed into the room while they worked on his friend. This wasn't Cascade and the doctors didn't understand, nor did they care to know about, the special relationship Jim had with Sandburg. All they saw was an overwrought friend who could only prove to be a distraction. Simon and Nick had dragged Jim out of the room before a peeved doctor could think to call security and have him thrown out.

None of this was important to him. All that mattered--all that he was focused on--was the man in that room. At the first sign of real trouble, Jim was prepared to intervene and damn the consequences. He tilted his head as he heard one of the doctors say that Sandburg was stable enough to transport to the Critical Care Unit.

"Jim?" Simon asked, his voice anxious. "What's happening?"

"They're going to transfer him to the CCU, Simon." He gazed at his friend, his expression troubled. "He hasn't come around yet and they don't know what he was given, so they're afraid to do more than give him fluids and wait for his blood work to come back from the lab."

Nick stepped closer, a frown on his face. "How do you--"

"Which one of you is from the Crime Lab?" A doctor who looked as if he should still be in school stood in front of them, holding a clipboard.

"I am." Nick crossed his arms over his chest. "Nick Stokes. What can you tell us about Mr. Sandburg's condition, Doctor...?"

"Sorry," the young man replied, "I'm Dr. Stiles. I'm one of the team that's been working on Mr. Sandburg. I can only tell you that he's stable, but we're transferring him to the CCU, the Critical Care Unit, for observation."

"Observation?" Simon frowned and rose to his feet. "Observation for what?"

Dr. Stiles blinked as his gaze traveled up and up. Stiles was a good foot shorter than Simon and he appeared slightly disconcerted by the difference. Any other time and Jim might found it amusing. Jim stood as well, figuring maybe Stiles would be more forthcoming if they presented an united front.

Stiles stood his ground as the three of them waited for him to speak. He didn't appear intimidated, which earned him a modicum of respect from all three men, but he still looked slightly uncomfortable.

"First of all, I need to stress that we don't know what Mr. Sandburg was injected with and until we do, our course of treatment has to be very conservative. This includes keeping him under observation. He isn't in a coma, but he isn't conscious, either." Stiles frowned. "I take it that you want me to be frank?"

Nick nodded. "Please. These gentlemen are my associates, but they're also friends of Mr. Sandburg. We'd all appreciate anything you can tell us about his condition."

"All right." Stiles pursed his lips and glanced down at his clipboard, before giving them a measured gaze. "At this point, we're pretty much at a loss. Physically, Mr. Sandburg has a few problems. He's underweight, dehydrated, and generally run down. However, he's breathing on his own and he doesn't have any major injuries that would indicate a reason for his lack of consciousness. We understand that he was injected with some sort of drug. However, he isn't presenting the typical signs of drug overdose or drug use for any of the drugs we're familiar with, legal or illicit."

"So what are you saying?" Nick cocked his head. "His current condition is due to this drug, but you don't know what it is?"

Stile's expression turned grim and he nodded. "That's about it. What I'm worried about most is the probability that Mr. Sandburg was injected with something new, perhaps something experimental. If that's the case, then there's little we can do for him beyond making him comfortable and hoping that once the drug, whatever it is, is out of his system that there won't be any lasting long-term effects."

Jim swallowed hard. "When can I see him?"

"Well--"

"We'll need complete access to Mr. Sandburg for the investigation. And I'm sure that Detective Ellison and Captain Banks, here, would like to be able to sit with their friend." Nick dropped his hands to his waist, arms akimbo, as he gazed at the doctor with an open, expectant expression on his face.

Jim hid a smile. Nick could give Sandburg a run for his money when it came to charming people. Different personalities, sure, but they both seemed to know instinctively how to get what they wanted. He wasn't surprised when Stiles caved in.

"I'll leave word with the nurses that you're to be allowed full access." Stiles shrugged. "Just don't expect Mr. Sandburg to be aware that you're there."

Jim nodded, grateful that he wasn't going to have to fight tooth and nail for access to his friend. The image conjured by the doctor's words sent a chill down his spine. What the hell had Blair been given? What if it was some kind of new designer drug, like Golden? What if he was trapped within his own mind, unable to find his way back? He shuddered.

"Thank you, Doctor," Simon said, his voice rough. "We appreciate your consideration."

Stiles blinked up at Simon and then let his gaze touch each of them in turn. "I can't emphasize enough how important it is to identify the substance that was injected into Mr. Sandburg." He let his gaze settle on Nick. "I understand that there was a sample found when you discovered him?"

Nick nodded. "It's at the Lab being analyzed. As soon as we have any answers, we'll pass them along. In the meantime, we'd be very interested in the results of your blood work. I'll need to take my own sample back to the Lab, of course. It'll serve as a comparison, and perhaps allow us to see how fast whatever this is, is being metabolized."

Stiles frowned. "I'm not sure how much information that I'll be able to release to you. While I realize that Mr. Sandburg is the victim of a crime, he's also our patient and I do have patient confidentiality to consider."

"That won't be a problem, Doctor." Jim crossed his arms.

"I'm afraid it is a problem, Detective."

Jim shook his head. "Blair's incapacitated at this time, right? Unable to make decisions regarding his care and the privacy of his results?"

"That's right. As such, unless we can locate a relative with the appropriate authority, he'll essentially be considered a ward of the hospital. The administration tends to be very conservative in these cases and would rather err on the side of the patient's rights."

"Commendable, but unnecessary in this case." Jim reached into his back pocket for his wallet, pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out. "As you can see, this is a copy of a durable power of attorney, giving me the right to make decisions on Blair's behalf."

Stiles skimmed over the paper and nodded. "I'll need to have a copy of this for our records, but it looks like it's in order."

"Good. Then the first thing we can get out of the way right now is that we intend to work closely with the LVPD. Mr. Stokes's request probably won't be the last one that will be made. Of course, I wish to be informed, but for the moment I'm authorizing complete cooperation." Jim nodded when Nick flashed him a grateful smile. "The best chance Blair has is to have the hospital and the Crime Lab work together."

Nick nodded. "We've got some of the best people in the country in our Lab and they're working on this as we speak. It's imperative that we figure this out quickly, Doctor. Not just for Mr. Sandburg's sake, though he is the highest priority, but also for the sake of the other victims who weren't as fortunate as he was."

Stiles eyes widened. "There are others? Where are they? We need to make sure that we monitor their reactions and compare them."

Nick raised his hands in a warding gesture. "Whoa. Hold on, Doc. The other victims are headed for the morgue. They didn't make it. Mr. Sandburg is the only one who was found alive."

Jim stared at him and frowned. He'd been so caught up in making sure that he was allowed to stay with Blair that he hadn't really been aware of what else was going on when they reached the first floor. He brought that memory out and replayed it, shocked at the number of body bags being carried into and out of the building when they left.

"How many?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"There were at least ten when we left. I haven't had an update since then." Nick sighed and dropped his eyes.

Ten. At least ten people dead in that building. Blair could have been one of them. If Jim hadn't thought of searching the areas around the medical centers and if they'd chosen different locations to search first, Blair would have been one of them.

"Ten?" Dr. Stiles shook his head, his expression grave. "Good lord. Are you absolutely positive that we're dealing with a drug?" At their blank looks, he said, "Gentlemen, can you guarantee that what we're dealing with is a drug of some kind and not a disease?"

"Disease?" Nick raised his eyebrows. "I don't follow you. These weren't natural deaths, doctor. Someone, or maybe several someones were injecting these people with something, some drug, possibly as part of an unethical, unauthorized human experimentation..." his voice trailed off and the expression on his face turned to one of horror.

"Yes," Dr. Stiles said, his voice grim. "Exactly. Now I have to ask you again. Are you absolutely certain that what Mr. Sandburg and the other victims was injected with was a drug? I need to know whether to contact the CDC."

Jim blinked. The CDC? What the hell would they need to contact the CDC for? He felt the blood rush from his face as he pictured the lab setup where they'd found Sandburg. But surely if there was any sign of sickness or disease, it would have presented during the autopsies of the first victims?

Nick frowned. "I don't think that'll be necessary, Doctor."

Jim's attention was caught by Sandburg being wheeled by on a gurney. An orderly pushed the gurney, two nurses alongside making sure the IV pole was steady and watching over Sandburg. "Simon?" Jim was already half-way to Sandburg by the time Simon replied.

"Go. I'll take care of this." Simon's voice was firm.


	24. Chapter 24

Nick rode up in the elevator. What awaited him on the fourth floor was a mystery. His impressions of Blair Sandburg had been colored by the two men from the Cascade PD. It skewed his view of the man, no doubt about it. It was also going to make it difficult for him to be objective as he gathered what evidence he could from the victim.

He'd heard the arguments between Grissom and Sara, or rather, he'd listened to Sara grumble about Grissom's attitude, and he understood both points of view. Sara was passionate about her work and when she got too close to a victim that passion tended to explode in her face, leaving her drained and burned out, turning her passion into cynicism.

Grissom, on the other hand, professed to being detached. Nick had no quarrel with detachment as a wise defense when dealing with the horrors that they saw on a daily basis. Sara had told Nick that she'd once accused Grissom of not feeling anything. She'd been embarrassed by that statement on a later case when one of Grissom's hot buttons had been pushed. The man had shown more passion than even Sara could have wished for.

But Sara still didn't completely understand. She thought that Grissom really didn't care unless one of those buttons of his was pushed. Otherwise, she thought he just did his job with a clinical thoroughness. Nick believed otherwise. What Grissom showed to the world, including those of his co-workers who didn't take the time to look more closely, was an impassive facade. What seethed beneath the surface was something far more complex and passionate than most would suspect.

Nick understood the reasons why being objective was so desirable, but he also knew that it was going to be impossible for any of them in this case. They'd gotten to know the detectives from Cascade, however briefly, and they'd become caught up in their search for their friend. The only one who hadn't really been closely involved was Sara. Nick didn't think that Griss would assign her to deal with Sandburg. Not when he seemed so fascinated by Detective Ellison. And not when he'd been so upset with her lately.

The elevator dinged, signaling its arrival on his floor. He gripped his kit and strode down the hallway towards the CCU. No matter how many times he'd performed this part of his job, he was never quite prepared for it or for facing the victim. Nick hated that word--victim. Other people had a tendency to view someone who was a victim as someone who was weak. As someone who should have been able to prevent what had happened to him, but hadn't. As someone who was now damaged in some way. Nick preferred to think of the man he was about to see as a witness, someone who could provide information that would help them find the perpetrators.

Nick stood at the door to the CCU and took a deep breath, slowly exhaling and centering himself for the task ahead. He flashed his ID at the nurse standing at the center console, surrounded by monitors.

"Let me guess. You're here for Blair Sandburg, right?"

"Yes ma'am." He raised his eyebrows.

"He's the only new patient we've gotten in the last day, so it was a safe guess. Besides, the way his pit bull is hovering in there, I figured it wouldn't be long before someone from the PD showed up," she said, her voice dry.

"Pit bull?" Nick frowned slightly. "Are you referring to Detective Ellison? Has he done something?"

She snorted softly. "No. Well, not exactly. Although some of my colleagues and I might have to take him out for drinks to thank him for ripping the Head Nurse a new one. Let's just say that none of us are all that fond of the woman." There was gentle amusement in her voice, much to Nick's relief.

"Ah, well, I'll let him know."

"You do that." She grinned. "The two of them are in the third room down the hall. Try not to get him all riled up, okay?"

"Um, yes ma'am." Nick blinked and headed for Sandburg's room, wondering just what Ellison had done.

Sure, he'd had to help Banks physically remove the man from Sandburg's emergency room so the doctors could do their work, but...surely not, he thought. Surely they wouldn't have tried to prevent Ellison from staying with Sandburg while he was in the CCU? Lord, that would definitely have set him off.

Shaking his head to himself, Nick pushed open the door to Sandburg's room and stepped inside, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight that greeted him. Sandburg lay curled on his side under a light sheet and hospital blanket, his lank curls dark against the white of the pillow, his eyes closed and his expression peaceful. Ellison sat on a chair pulled up close to the bed, his head bowed and his eyes closed. His left hand rested lightly on the top of Sandburg's head and his right carefully clasped Sandburg's right hand. Nick felt uncomfortably as though he were intruding on an intimate moment and wondered if he shouldn't just back out of the room.

Ellison raised his head and opened his eyes. Nick caught his breath at the tender expression on the man's face. It was there for a moment only, then his normal stoic mask dropped into place.

"Nick." Ellison's voice had a hushed quality to it. "I'm glad you're the one here to do this."

Nick cleared his throat. "I'll try to be as gentle as possible. Do you want to wait outside?"

Ellison shook his head and gazed at Sandburg. "I'd prefer to help you, if you could use me?" He gently stroked the limp curls away from Sandburg's forehead.

"I'd be glad for the help." Nick placed his kit on the small bedside table that also served as a tray for the patient. "Let's do this. The sooner we're done, the sooner he can concentrate on getting better."

Nick worked efficiently, gathering standard evidence. Carefully holding Sandburg's hands, he took scrapings under his fingernails. Examination of Sandburg's body for possible evidence was done with a minimum of fuss, Ellison helping him to gently roll Sandburg from side to side. He tried to preserve as much of the man's dignity as he could, only uncovering portions of his body as he needed to examine them.

Sandburg didn't make so much as a sound or open his eyes throughout the entire exam. The silence disturbed Nick. He was used to talking while he worked. Maybe it was a nervous habit, but chatting to the vic, awake or not, distracted him from the meaning of the work he was performing.

He'd always looked to Grissom for his approval, even after he'd made peace with the fact that Grissom didn't want him to do that; that he wanted Nick to do the best job he could for his own satisfaction. There was something about Ellison, just like there was about Grissom, that drew the desire to do his best out of Nick. Where he'd grown comfortable with Grissom's presence and had stopped wondering if he was always under scrutiny or if he measured up to what Griss thought of him, with Ellison, Nick didn't have a clue. All he could do was concentrate on doing his job and hope that was enough.

Nick carefully placed the evidence envelopes into his kit and pulled off his gloves and disposed of them. He watched as Ellison eased Sandburg into a more comfortable position, leaving his hand resting near his friend's face. As Nick watched, Sandburg moved slightly, turning his head, until his cheek made contact with Ellison's hand.

Nick cleared his throat. "I guess that's it then," he said, his soft voice sounding loud after the silence of the last several minutes. "I should get this back to the lab. I'll either be back later or someone else will come. Is there anything that I can get for you?"

Ellison shook his head and smiled slightly. "I'm sure that Simon will be up soon to try to get me to go back to the hotel room and get some sleep. We'll argue and he'll lose and leave alone. But he'll come back a few hours later with a change of clothes for me."

Nick grinned. "You sound like you've gone through this before."

"Sandburg being in the hospital and me waiting for him to wake up?" Ellison sighed. "More than once, yeah. It never gets any easier. I'd like to thank you. For listening to me when I had to sound like I was crazy; for being so careful with Sandburg. For everything."

"My pleasure. I'm just glad that we found him in time. Hopefully he'll come around soon and be able to help us out." Nick held up a hand when Ellison tensed. "Even if he can't tell us anything useful, I hope he wakes up soon."

Ellison relaxed and nodded. "You and me, both." He gazed down at the man in the bed, affection written on his face. "It's unnerving seeing him so still and quiet. He's usually got enough energy for two people and an opinion or story about everything."

"From what you and your Captain have described, I can't wait to get to meet him for real." Nick smiled.

"He'll like you," Ellison glanced at him. "He likes people who care about others."

Nick ducked his head and reached for his kit. "Well, guess I'll head out now. You have my numbers right--cell and pager? You need anything, you give me a call. Don't worry about what time it is."

"Thanks."

"No problem. I wouldn't be surprised if Grissom doesn't come over to see how things are going, even if I can't make it back right away." He paused at the door. "I'm sure he'll keep you in the loop on the investigation.

Ellison nodded. "We'll be here."


	25. Chapter 25

As the door swung shut behind Nick, Jim sat back down. To say that he was confused would be an understatement. The raw emotions that had been washing over him since he'd been alone with Blair in the CCU were threatening to overpower him and he was grateful to be alone with his friend.

It had been all that he could handle talking to Nick before and after the examination. Nick was a good guy and very empathetic, but he hadn't wanted to have an emotional meltdown in front of him. Jim wasn't even sure how Simon would handle that, but at least they had some serious history between them. He'd only known Nick for a couple of days.

As if his thoughts had conjured him, the door opened and Simon stepped inside. His expression was grave as he focused on Sandburg and he stood at the foot of the bed, letting his hands rest on the railing.

"How is he doing, Jim?" Simon's voice was quiet.

"No change yet, Simon." Jim smiled. "But he's going to be okay. I can feel it."

Simon shot him a sharp look. "Is that your hope talking or do you really, you know, know something?"

"Mostly it's hope, but he's tough." He glanced down and ruffled Sandburg's dark curls gently. "I refuse to believe that we found him in time only to have it all go wrong in the end. He'll make it through this and be all right."

The corners of Simon's mouth turned up in a small smile. "And he'll have you there every step of the way."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "Like you won't be? Too late, Simon. Your secret's out."

He snorted. "I think the only one it's been a secret from is Sandburg. How someone that smart can be that blind when it comes to knowing how people feel about him is beyond me. And yet he still hangs in there with us, even when he's not completely sure where he fits in." He shook his head.

Jim nodded. If he had his way, Sandburg wouldn't have any doubts as to just where he fit into Jim's life. And it wasn't out on the periphery. He just needed to wake up already so Jim could let him in on it.

"I hope he's willing to stay after all of this." Jim gripped Sandburg's hand as if he could force his vitality into his friend by mere physical contact.

"Jim." Simon waited until he looked up. "What happened here has nothing to do with Sandburg's life in Cascade."

"I know that Simon. I just hope, once he wakes up, that he's ready to come home." He didn't add that if Sandburg wasn't ready, that this time he wouldn't be alone. Jim planned on sticking close to him. In fact, he might not let him out of his sight for a long time.

"He will be, Jim." Simon's voice was quiet. "Listen, I'm going to head on back to the hotel and see if I can catch some sleep. I'll be back in a few hours with some clean clothes for you."

Jim glanced at him in surprise.

"What?" Simon frowned.

"You're not going to argue with me about going back to the hotel?"

"If I thought you'd listen, I'd suggest it. Since I know that you won't, I thought I'd save my breath. Of course, if you really want me to treat you like you're five years old and not a grown man who can make his own decisions, I can do that."

Jim smiled. "Thanks, Simon. I'd appreciate a change of clothes when you come back. Hopefully Sandburg will be awake by then."

"All right, then, I'll get out of here. And Jim? Try not to give the nurses too hard a time, will you?"

Alone again with Sandburg, Jim slowly sank down on his chair. He contemplated the man lying in the hospital bed. How had he been so lucky to have him enter his life just when he needed him most? He'd thought that he was going crazy--hearing voices he couldn't identify, seeing things that turned out to be blocks away, and more--and along came this kid, this hyperactive grad student who held all the answers.

Sure, it seemed like half the stuff Sandburg came up with about how to make his senses work came off the top of his head. And some of it probably did.  But Jim knew that he had studied and thought about enhanced senses for most of his life. What sometimes seemed like off the cuff suggestions were grounded in that lifetime of research.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I've been so angry lately and I've taken it out on you. None of it was your fault. I can't blame you for being who you are. I knew when we started this that your goal was your degree and that means that you have to finish your dissertation."

He reached out a trembling hand and stroked the dark curls. He'd had plenty of time to think about his own behavior after Sandburg had left for New Mexico and he hadn't particularly liked his conclusions. Fear. The kid was right. It all came back to his fears.

But Sandburg didn't really understand yet what his biggest fear was. Hell, he hadn't understood it until he'd forced himself to examine his actions and motives. He was afraid all right. He was afraid that the dissertation was almost done and then Sandburg wouldn't have any need to stay with him.

At least, that's what his fear told him. Once he acknowledged it, once he let it wash over and through him, he could examine where it came from. It was the same old fear of being abandoned. When he looked at it dispassionately, he knew that he couldn't control what Sandburg chose to do. And he couldn't expect him not to leave if he didn't give him an alternative.

"I never told you what your dissertation means to me, did I?" Jim shook his head. "I didn't realize it myself until you'd left. I've come to hate it, Chief. Really despise it. I thought that when it was finished it would mean that you'd be leaving. And I hate anything that could take you away from me."

He sighed and placed his hand lightly on Sandburg's cheek. His eyes widened as Sandburg turned his head slightly, as if he sought to press his face more closely to Jim's hand. Tears welled in his eyes and he blinked, letting them fall freely down his cheeks.

"See, I love you, Chief. I have since almost the very beginning of our friendship." He gulped and fought to keep his voice steady. "In the last few months my feelings for you have changed, grown deeper. I couldn't see it, though. I was too busy being caught up in my anger over the thought that one day you'd leave me. That when you had your degree, this would all be over for you."

He swiped at his tears with the back of his hand. "I'm a fool, Chief. I was lumping you in with everyone else that's ever left me, when I should know better. Because I know you better. But I forgot all that. All I saw was that your goal was almost met."

Jim gripped Sandburg's hand tightly in his. He wanted to believe that Sandburg was hearing him, that somehow if he could only say what he needed to say that Sandburg would wake up and everything would be all right again. It was funny what hope would drive a person to do.

"I know I agreed to the dissertation. And I know that I've been a jackass about it lately. Yeah, I'm concerned about how you're going to manage to keep my anonymity. You know how I am about privacy and not wanting to be considered some kind of freak."

He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Did he have the courage to really say what was in his heart? When he opened his eyes to gaze at Sandburg's face, the thought that he could end up losing him forever made his decision easy. If there was any way to convince the kid to stay with him, it would be by telling him the truth. Maybe Sandburg could hear him and maybe he couldn't, but the opportunity was here now and he wasn't going to waste it.

"What I've really been afraid of is losing you, Chief. Not just because you help me with my senses. But because you're the most important person in my life. I love you, Blair. And I don't want you to go. Stay with me, Chief." Jim squeezed the hand clasped in his. "You need to wake up now, so I can tell you this all over again."

Sandburg shifted slightly in bed, but didn't open his eyes. Jim hadn't really been expecting him to wake. Still, he couldn't help hoping every time Sandburg moved that it meant that he was getting closer to waking. He smiled ruefully as he pictured Sandburg's reaction when Jim told him that he'd poured out his heart, but the reason he didn't remember it was because he was unconscious at the time. He'd probably laugh and say it was typical of Jim to wait until he couldn't talk back.

A deep sob caught him unawares and he rested his forehead on the bed as he forced back the dark emotion that threatened to erupt. Sandburg was going to wake up and be all right. Nothing else was acceptable, therefore nothing else would be allowed. But what would he do if Sandburg never woke up? Or what if he woke up and his brain was fried?

"No," he whispered into the bedding. "That's not going to happen. He's going to be fine. He's going to wake up and be just fine."

Hot tears escaped from behind his closed eyelids and fell to the sheet, his body shuddering with the effort it took to control his sobs. His breathing turned harsh as he fought with his pain and his fears. He couldn't afford to let go now. Sandburg needed him. More than that, Sandburg needed him to be strong. But somehow, telling himself to be strong wasn't enough. All of the fear and pain and sorrow and guilt that he'd been carrying around inside was welling up and wanting out.

"I can't do this alone, Chief. I can't do it without you. Don't make me try," His voice was hoarse from his tears and his face was still pressed into the bed as his body reacted to the agony of his emotions. At least no one was there to witness his breakdown.

Jim froze as he felt the lightest touch on the back of his head. Was it real? The touch came again, feather light against him. He swallowed hard, trying not to dislodge the contact.

"Blair?" he whispered. His hand captured the trembling fingers that tried to stroke his hair as he raised his head to gaze at his friend.

Sandburg's eyes were open and they were fixed on Jim's face. A sad smile played on his lips, but his expression was more curious than upset. His gaze never wandered as Jim rose to his feet.

"Welcome back, Chief," Jim said, his voice as unsteady as his legs.

"Jim." The word wasn't even a whisper, just the merest sound on an exhale, but he heard it.

A shy smile crossed his face and he nodded. "Yeah, Chief, it's me. I'm here. It's good to see you awake, buddy." He glanced at the door. "I should let the nurses know that you're with us again. I'm sure the doctors will want to see you."

Jim waited for a response and frowned slightly when none came. Sandburg's expression hadn't changed, if anything he was staring at Jim as if he were a thirsty man in the desert and Jim was the only oasis around. There wasn't any sign that Sandburg had heard him or was even curious as to what he'd said.

Even more off balance now, Jim cleared his throat. "Blair? Are you with me? If you understand what I'm saying, I want you to say something, okay buddy?" He waited, but the hoped for reply never came. Sandburg continued to stare at him, his expression full of love, but his eyes were curiously dreamy, as though he wasn't really there at all.

Jim swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. "Come on, Blair. Give me something, will ya? Gotta say you're starting to worry me here, Chief." When there was still no response, except for the continued unnerving stare, Jim slowly nodded. "Okay. Maybe you just need some time, right? I mean, you've been through a lot. You need to feel like you're safe."

On impulse, he reached out and gently stroked his fingers down Sandburg's cheek. He was astonished by the reaction. Sandburg closed his eyes and leaned his head into the soft touch, a blissed-out expression crossing his face.

"You like that, huh Chief?" Jim smiled. "Glad to see it. I like being able to make you feel good."

He continued the gentle motion for a few moments, blinking away the moisture that threatened to fill his eyes again. The doctors could have their time with Sandburg later. Right now Jim felt like he was reconnecting with his friend on a basic level. Surely letting him feel safe and loved for awhile before people started prodding at him was justified?

The extraordinary thing was the surge of emotion that Jim felt as he stood there touching Sandburg. The sensation of being able to bring comfort gave way to a feeling of love and joy so wondrous that it filled him near to overflowing. The comfort and warmth flowed through him, shoring him against his fears.

As good as it felt, there was still something odd about it all. As deeply as Jim loved Sandburg, as joyous as the emotion was, he'd never felt it like this, never even imagined that it could be like this. He frowned. Just what was it that he was experiencing?

There was a difference to what he was feeling. As if the emotions weren't his--or not all his--but were coming from outside of him, filling him as if he were a vessel. He stared at Sandburg in disbelief. This wasn't possible. Of all the weird stuff that they'd gone through together, Jim steadfastly refused to believe that this could happen. No way in hell was he suddenly feeling what Sandburg felt, experiencing his emotions first hand.

On the other hand, a little voice in his head whispered that if this was what was happening, then he was one lucky son of a bitch. Because that meant that Blair loved him so deeply and so completely that even Jim couldn't doubt anymore. Why not just accept it for the gift that it was and let go of his reservations?

"Because it isn't possible," he said aloud. And it wasn't possible. Therefore it wasn't what it seemed. He was just having a small breakdown. Wasn't he entitled after everything that had happened?

Jim snatched his hand away from Sandburg's cheek and took a half step back from the bed. The strong emotions receded, leaving a backwash of loss in their wake. He gasped, tempted to step forward again and re-establish physical contact with Sandburg to see if the feelings would return. But he didn't. Instead he stood apart, watching as Sandburg blinked, his gaze never leaving Jim's face as he slowly succumbed to sleep.

Jim waited until he was sure that the kid was sleeping deeply before he turned away from the bed. He crossed his arms and bowed his head, already missing the warmth and love he'd felt so recently. Was it real or merely an illusion projected by his own wants and needs? Could he drop his guard long enough to find out? What was the worst that could happen?

He shook his head. The worst that could happen was Sandburg denying that that's the way he felt. And then where would he be?

Coward. Here he was ready to declare his feelings for Sandburg as soon as he woke up and what did he do? He turned tail and ran at the first sign that Sandburg might feel the same. The kid was right--fear based responses indeed. Might as well slink back to Cascade, for the good he'd do here.

Jim flinched. The little voice in his head was coming perilously close to the truth about himself as he saw it and it wasn't pretty. He'd promised himself that he'd let Sandburg know how he really felt about him. And he wasn't going to abandon Sandburg. Not now. He'd done that once and look what had happened.

He straightened and turned back to the figure in the bed. What had happened a few minutes ago was a fluke. Something that he would just accept as a miracle given to him by the universe and leave it at that.

Jim sank back down in the chair and gingerly grasped Sandburg's hand, ignoring the little voice in his head that snickered at his relief when nothing strange happened. As far as he was concerned, his little voice could go take a flying leap. Sandburg needed him. He was here and here he was staying. No matter what.


	26. Chapter 26

"Captain Banks?" Nick was surprised not to find Ellison sitting next to Sandburg's bedside.

"Nick." Banks rose to his feet, a corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Looking for Jim?"

He shook his head. "Just surprised that he isn't here. I'd have bet that you'd have to pry him away with a crowbar."

Banks chuckled. "I wouldn't have taken that bet. Surprised the hell out of me when he agreed to go catch some shuteye while I sat with Sandburg, but I think he was more wiped than even he cared to admit." He raised his eyebrows. "So, why are you here?"

"I need to talk to the doctor and thought I'd stop in while I was here." Nick approached the foot of the bed and gazed down at Sandburg. "How's he doing?"

"Jim said he woke briefly last night, but he hasn't opened his eyes since then." Banks sighed. "They still think this may be caused by whatever drug he was given, but since they still don't know what it is, they won't make any guesses as to when he'll wake up."

"I might be able to help with that." Nick pulled out a sheaf of folded papers from his jacket and held them out to Banks. "It looks like he may have been given more than one drug, but we were only able to identify a couple of them. The others, well, it's possible that we're dealing with some new type of designer drug."

"Damn it!" Banks looked like he wanted to pound something, only restraining himself in order not to disturb the man in the bed.

"What?" Nick frowned. Banks's response seemed a bit over the top.

He shook his head, his mouth turning down. "This wouldn't be the first time that Sandburg's been dosed with a designer drug. The first year that he worked with Jim, we had a case involving a drug called Golden."

Nick nodded. "I've read about it. Nasty."

"Jim was close to catching the guys who invented the damn stuff and they knew it. They ordered pizzas and sprinkled Golden all over them, then arranged for them to be delivered to our department at the PD."

Nick's eyes widened. "And Sandburg had some?"

"He was the only one in the bullpen when they were delivered and he was the only one who ate any of the pizza. One slice." Banks squeezed his eyes shut. There was remembered pain in his eyes when he opened them. "It nearly killed him. He was in the hospital for four days. On a respirator for over half that time."

"Damn."

Nick glanced at Sandburg and wondered why someone like him would stick it out working with the police after the things that he'd been through. And he wasn't even getting paid to do it. Wait. He wasn't exactly working with the police. He was working with Ellison. Maybe that's what made the difference.

"He must care a great deal about him," he muttered. He hadn't meant to say that out loud and when Banks shot him a sharp glance he felt himself flush.

Banks nodded, a serious expression on his face. "He does. I've never seen anything like the two of them."

Nick wondered what he meant by that exactly, but figured he was pushing his luck with his last comment. Banks cleared his throat and made a small display out of unfolding the lab report. Nick smiled slightly as he watched him read it, wondering just how much of the tech speak that he understood.

"My God," Banks said as he perused the report. "I recognize oxycodone. That's OxyContin, right? But what's chlorpromazine?"

Nick shook his head. "OxyContin is actually oxycodone hydrochloride, a time release version of oxycodone. What was found in Mr. Sandburg's bloodstream was just oxycodone, the pure opioid, and there was no sign of an analgesic like aspirin or acetaminophen, either."

"What about this chlorpromazine stuff?" Banks frowned.

"Chlorpromazine is a psychotropic drug used to treat schizophrenia as well as severe anxiety."

"Psychotropic? Why in the hell would someone inject him with that?"

"I don't know. The concentrations of both of those drugs weren't high in his bloodstream, but they were present and easily identified." The fact that there didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason for the combination of drugs disturbed Nick far more than he was letting on. He gazed at Sandburg and felt a fear for him that he hadn't allowed himself to feel when he'd first read the report.

"Possible retrovirus?" Banks glanced up sharply. "That's that stuff that Grissom was talking about that's used in gene therapy, right? Why is it listed as possible?"

"Yeah. You're right. A retrovirus can be used as part of a gene therapy regimen, like Griss said. It's listed as a possible because Greg couldn't definitively identify it in the blood sample we had. Our equipment is among the best, but this type of identification isn't exactly what it was designed to do. Greg..." He hesitated for a moment, then continued. "Greg got creative. He's pretty confident that it's the same substance that he found in the other blood samples, the ones from the earliest victims."

"But he's not positive."

"No. I have to tell you, though, that for Greg to even suggest it, well, I'd give it a very high probability of being correct."

"And the unknown compounds?"

Again Nick hesitated. He wanted to tell the man all they knew, he just wished that they knew more. "That's what we're speculating might be a designer drug or drugs." He shook his head. "I wish I had better news for you, Captain Banks."

Banks gazed at Sandburg, a pensive expression on his face, and said absently, "Call me Simon." He glanced at Nick. "Any theories on what this drug cocktail was supposed to do to him?"

"Not really." Nick shrugged. "All Greg would say is that it would really screw with his body and with his mind."

Banks rubbed his chin. "What about the other victims?"

"Dr. Robbins has most of his staff in. We'll be doing comparative blood analyses on all of them, as well as trying to identify who they are." Nick closed his eyes against the mental image of all the bodies being rolled into the morgue for refrigeration while awaiting autopsy.

"What was the final count?"

"Fifteen." Nick gazed at him, his expression bleak. "Not counting the possible victims that were found previously. We'll be comparing all of their blood results."

"Good." Banks expression went blank and he slid down onto the chair beside the bed. "Oh God. How am I going to tell Jim about this?"

"Cap--Simon, we don't really know much of anything at this point. Sure, there's some nasty stuff in Mr. Sandburg's blood, but it doesn't necessarily mean that the outcome has to be worst case." Nick tried to convey his earnestness, but even he couldn't quite believe that there wouldn't be lasting problems. Still, until they knew for sure, any speculation on effects was just buying trouble for themselves.

Banks smiled ruefully. "Maybe. But then you don't know Ellison and Sandburg. If there's a worst case scenario for something, they usually manage to land right in the middle of it." He sobered and glanced at Sandburg. "I really hope you're right this time, though."

Nick nodded and was about to say that he needed to go find Sandburg's doctor so he could pass along the information, when there was a soft moan from the man in the bed. Banks stood abruptly and reached out to touch Sandburg's shoulder.

Sandburg moaned again and moved restlessly, his head turning on the pillow. Banks gently shook his shoulder and Sandburg's eyelids fluttered open. He stared without recognition first at Banks then at Nick and he shrank back away from them. Nick frowned at the fear and panic in Sandburg's eyes.

"Sandburg? Blair?" Banks said, his voice soft as if he were speaking to a frightened child. "It's me, son. Simon Banks. You know me, Blair. You're safe now. Everything's going to be all right. You just take it easy."

"I'll get the doctor."

Nick found two nurses at the central station. When he told them that Sandburg was awake, one picked up the phone to page the doctor and the other--Kelly, from her name tag--hurried around the desk and walked briskly towards Sandburg's room. Nick had to hustle to catch up to her, managing to enter the room before the door swung shut in his face.

"Mr. Sandburg?" Kelly moved around the bed until she stood opposite Captain Banks. Nick waited for her to continue, but she stared at Sandburg and seemed oddly reluctant to speak.

Sandburg glanced at her and shrank back into his pillow. Sandburg's gaze darted from Banks to Kelly and back again, and he began to tremble.

The door to the room opened and Dr. Stiles entered, writing something on his clipboard. He finally glanced up when his forward progress was stopped by the bed. By that time, Sandburg was visibly shaking in distress.

"Doctor," Nick said, his tone urgent, "I really think you should take a look at the report I just--"

"Not now," Stiles said abruptly. He nudged Kelly out of the way and took her place by the head of the bed. "Mr. Sandburg? It's good to see you awake. Can you tell me what you're feeling?"

Sandburg didn't reply, but tried to pull further in on himself. The shaking continued, his entire body trembling with the force of it. When the doctor leaned closer in order to examine him, Sandburg moaned and scrabbled across the bed, wedging himself against the rails as far away from the doctor as he could.

"Kelly. If you please?" Stiles jerked his chin at the spot occupied by Captain Banks, across the bed. "I'm sorry, Captain, but I'm going to have to ask both you and Mr. Stokes to stay back. If you can't do that, I'll have to ask you to leave the room."

Kelly eased around the bed and took the spot that Banks vacated. She smiled apologetically at him, but he didn't seem inclined to be appeased. He narrowed his eyes and moved out of the way grudgingly.

"Mr. Sandburg? I need for you to let me know if you understand me." Stiles frowned when there was no response, not even a change in Sandburg's attention. "Let's try to get him situated in the bed again."

As they both reached for Sandburg, his moans became louder and he curled up into a ball with his arms clasped tightly around his head. When they touched him his moans turned into a kind of keening sound. Stiles had a grim expression on his face as he let go his hold and motioned for Kelly to do the same.

The keening subsided into harsh sobs. Nick frowned. It almost sounded like he was hearing a name in amongst the sobs. Maybe he did hear it, since the name Sandburg seemed to be calling was _Jim_.

"Well, that's obviously not going to work." Stiles rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Mr. Sandburg, I'm going to give you something to calm you down."

"Doctor--" Nick began urgently.

"I said not now!" Stiles snapped, his voice harsh as he reached for Sandburg, trying to pull one arm from his head. "Kelly, let's go with Valium."

"Dr. Stiles!" Banks voice boomed out, trying to get the man's attention, but only succeeding in causing Sandburg to pull away from Stiles. He lowered his voice slightly. "You need to listen to Mr. Stokes. It's important."

The nurse approached the bed hesitantly, carrying a loaded syringe. She glanced uncertainly from Banks to Stiles, but when the doctor gestured impatiently for her to hurry up, she stepped closer.

"I'll listen to him later, Captain. Right now, I need to get Mr. Sandburg calmed down so that I can examine him." He reached again for Sandburg's arm and tried to wrestle it away from his head. "Kelly, help me out here. I may have to call in some orderlies."

By the time both Kelly and Stiles had their hands full of Sandburg, he was making horrible noises. If the man would only listen to him, Nick thought worriedly. This was a bad idea all around and one glance at Banks told Nick that the Captain was perilously close to wading in and forcibly removing the doctor. Nick wasn't at all sure that he wouldn't help him do it.

"Hold him there, Kelly. I'm tired of screwing around with this. Let's just get it done."

Dr. Stiles had one hand wrapped around Sandburg's right arm just above the elbow. He glanced at the syringe that had rolled just out of his reach on the bedside table. One glance at both Banks and Nick confirmed that there wouldn't be any help from that quarter. He sighed and let go of Sandburg's arm.

"You're making a mistake," Nick said flatly. "Listen to me."

"I don't have time for this," Stiles said, his voice angry. "I want you both out of here right now. Kelly, keep him still." He picked up the syringe and turned back to Sandburg. As Stiles approached, Sandburg yelled, startling them all and causing Stiles to drop the syringe.

"Jim!"

The door banged open against the wall and Ellison filled the room with his presence. Nick stared at him and the phrase _righteous fury_ passed through his mind. For the first time in his experience he thought that maybe there was something to those old-fashioned words--like wrath and smite--and he wondered if he was about to see Ellison smite Dr. Stiles.

"What the hell is going on here? Get away from him."

Ellison strode to the bed and physically set the sputtering Stiles aside. He glanced down at Sandburg, huddled in a tight ball as if trying to protect himself and then he glared across the bed at the nurse. Kelly gulped and released Sandburg's arm. She took several steps back, holding her hands up to show she didn't mean any harm.

"Well?" Ellison glared at the room in general. "Anyone want to tell me what's going on? Simon?" Sandburg whimpered, drawing his attention.

The angry set of Ellison's face smoothed into an expression of gentle concern. He reached out a hesitant hand and placed it on Sandburg's head, stroking his hair lightly.

"It's okay, Chief. I'm here," he said, his voice low. "I won't let anything happen to you."

He continued stroking his friend's hair and gradually Sandburg uncurled his body. Sandburg's gaze fixed on Ellison's face and he stretched out some, moving fractionally closer. Sandburg glanced at Stiles, who was slowly approaching Ellison's side, and flinched away again, fear in his eyes.

"Stay back!" Ellison barked over his shoulder at Stiles. "Damn it, can't you see he's afraid of you. Don't come any closer. Simon, keep him back."

"With pleasure, Jim." Banks seemed relieved to have something physical to do, especially since it involved manhandling the good doctor. "Let's move over here by the door, shall we? Maybe now you'll listen to what Nick has to tell you."

"Simon, what's going on? Why's Blair so upset?" Ellison kept his voice quiet.

Sandburg relaxed fractionally, though he kept darting glances over at Stiles, now standing with Banks next to the door. Banks kept a hand on Stiles's arm, keeping him from leaving. Finally, Sandburg seemed satisfied that everyone was staying put and he focused his gaze on Ellison, stretching out further on the bed and moving closer to him.

"That's it, Chief," Ellison encouraged. "You're safe. No one's going to hurt you. I promise. Simon?"

"I don't really know what happened, Jim." Banks sighed. "Sandburg woke up and Nick had Dr. Stiles paged. Sandburg was slightly agitated, but I just thought he was looking for you."

"Mr. Sandburg wasn't too happy about me being in here," Kelly said, her voice hesitant.

"And when the good doctor arrived, he freaked, Jim." Banks said bluntly. "Every time he tried to get close, Sandburg got more and more upset."

Ellison's stroking motion had a soothing effect on Sandburg, who relaxed back into his pillow. Nick found it a bit unnerving that Sandburg's attention was focused so completely on Ellison, but the detective didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.

"Can you blame him, Simon?" Ellison asked. "Think of what he's been through. If you'd been where he was, would you be happy about someone dressed in a lab coat or looking like a doctor coming near you?"

"Good point." Banks glared at Stiles, who blinked and had the grace to look slightly chagrined.

Sandburg appeared completely relaxed now, the expression on his face one of contentment. Ellison briefly cupped his palm on Sandburg's cheek and then trailed his hand down to rest on Sandburg's shoulder. He glanced at them and Nick's breath caught at the expression on his face. Ellison looked _alive_, as if part of him had been missing before and now he was whole. It was an amazing difference and Nick realized that he wasn't the only one to notice it when he heard Banks's sharp intake of breath.

"What was it you were trying to tell Dr. Stiles, Nick?"

"I was trying to explain about the lab report on the blood sample we took from Mr. Sandburg. That he probably didn't want to give him anything, since it's unclear just how adding another drug to the mix would affect him."

"What drugs?" Stiles asked with a frown. "We did a test and didn't find anything overtly dangerous."

"Yeah, well, I'm not surprised." Nick shrugged. "Our equipment is probably a lot more sensitive than what you have here and Greg Sanders is a genius when it comes to figuring this stuff out. The levels of the legal substances are fairly low, but they're still there and may affect what drugs you might prescribe. It's the other stuff that's the even bigger concern." He handed over the copy of the lab report and waited while Stiles read through it quickly.

"What are you talking about?" Ellison's voice was sharp. "What drugs did you find?"

Banks moved to the foot of the bed and drew Ellison's attention. "They found traces of oxycodone and chlorpromazine."

Ellison gave a start. "An opioid and a pyschotropic? What possible reason could anyone have for combining those and injecting them in Sandburg?" A small movement from the bed made him glance down and smile. "It's okay, Chief. Whatever happened, it's over now. We'll make sure that you get all the help you need to get well."

"How the hell do you know about chlorpromazine?" Banks frowned.

"Remember the Tankersly case? Frank Young was a schizophrenic. Chlorpromazine was one of the drugs that he was on. He stopped taking it a few months before he murdered Lionel Tankersly."

"Oh." Simon shook his head. "What does it do to people who aren't schizophrenic?"

Dr. Stiles spoke from his position by the door, his voice subdued. "It's hard to know for sure. I can tell you what some of the side effects can be. It can act as an anti-cholinergic." At their confused looks, he added, "The effects include confusion, delirium, short-term memory problems, disorientation and impaired attention, among other things."

"Sounds pretty damn serious to me," Banks said, his voice nearly a growl. "Could that explain Sandburg's reactions?"

"Maybe." Stiles shook his head and sighed. He glanced at Nick. "I owe you an apology. If I'd listened to you I would have approached Mr. Sandburg differently."

"What about the oxycodone?" Banks pressed. "What would that do?"

"Oxycodone is an opioid, as Detective Ellison mentioned. It's generally used to control chronic pain." Stiles frowned and turned to Nick. "Oxycodone specifically? Not OxyContin or Percodan or Percocet or one of the other combination drugs?"

"Greg's report specifically states pure oxycodone. That's not sold as a prescription drug, is it?"

Stiles shook his head. "Not usually. Normally you see it in a timed release form such as OxyContin. Or combined with aspirin or acetaminophen, which would be Percodan or Percocet. These days many doctors are reluctant to prescribe opioids. They're concerned about the possibility of prosecution, even in cases where their use is indicated."

"You said something about other stuff," Ellison said as he glanced at Nick. "What else did you find?"

"We can't be sure, but, well, Greg thinks that the retrovirus he found in the earlier victims was also present in Mr. Sandburg's bloodstream." Nick glanced at Dr. Stiles when he lifted his head and stared at him in surprise.

"Retrovirus?" Dr. Stiles frowned. "But you aren't sure?"

"Not one hundred percent, no." Nick shrugged. "All Greg would commit to is that it's highly probable. We're checking all of the victims found in the building with Mr. Sandburg for the same markers."

Stiles stared at Sandburg thoughtfully. "We may need to call in some of our research staff from the University."

Nick shook his head. "Not until we have a better understanding of what we're up against. This is still a criminal investigation."

Stiles started and glanced at Nick, eyes wide. "Yes. Of course."

"What would something like that do to Sandburg?" Ellison asked, his voice tight.

Stiles shook his head. "There's no way to know. Not without more information. And since we don't know for a fact that there really is a retrovirus present, I'd suggest that we avoid buying trouble for ourselves."

"And in the meantime? What about Sandburg?" Ellison's eyes flashed and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. A small whimper from the man in the bed again brought a complete change in his demeanor as he attempted to reassure his friend. "Shhh, Chief. It's all right. I'm not angry with you. Everything's going to be all right." He stroked Sandburg's hair and lightly rubbed his arm.

Nick swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and turned away, feeling oddly like he was intruding. Banks and Stiles were both glancing away as if to give the two men an illusion of privacy. After a few minutes, there was silence and then a soft sigh. Nick glanced over at the bed. Sandburg's eyes were half closed, but his focus remained on Ellison. The detective was staring at his friend and still slowly stroking his arm, a sad expression on his face.

"Detective Ellison had a valid question, Doctor. What happens with Mr. Sandburg while we're trying to figure out exactly what he was injected with?" Nick asked.

"About all we can do is observe him." Stiles raised his eyebrows and looked at Ellison. "I still need to examine him."

"Why do you think he reacted to you the way he did?" Banks asked hurriedly, cutting off Ellison's reply.

"Perhaps Detective Ellison is right and he reacted to the coat." Stiles frowned. "He didn't become agitated with any of you?"

Banks pursed his lips and shook his head. "He seemed a bit fearful and I think he was looking for Jim when he woke up, but nothing like he was when you and the nurse came in."

Nick shrugged. "He may not realize that he's really safe and may see you as just someone else who's about to hurt him."

"It's a possibility, I suppose." Stiles shrugged out of his lab coat and hung it from a hook on the back of the door, along with his stethoscope. "Has he said anything to any of you? Has there been any indication that he's really cognizant of what's going on around him?"

Banks shook his head. "I spoke to him when he woke up, but he didn't respond to me as if he was even aware that I was talking to him. Like I said, he seemed to be looking for someone and I just assumed it was you, Jim."

Ellison nodded. "I think it probably was. He hasn't said a word since I've been here." He glanced down at the sleepy-eyed Sandburg, a small smile playing on his mouth. "You know I'm here, though, don't you, Chief." His voice was soft.

Stiles placed his hands on his hips and cocked his head. "Detective Ellison, do you think you could keep him calm for me?"

"I'll try." Ellison shot him a sharp look. "But if he gets too agitated and I can't get him to settle, you'll cut your exam short and move back. I won't have him as upset as he was when I got here." His voice was quiet, but there was a hint of steel in it. This was a man who was used to command and used to being obeyed.

Stiles nodded shortly and Ellison tilted his head, indicating that he should move closer. Sandburg ignored him as he approached. Stiles waited across the bed until Ellison nodded that it was okay for him to start his examination.

The hitch came when he reached out to touch Sandburg on the arm in an attempt to gain his attention. Sandburg jerked away in fear, pushing himself back against the bed rails and Ellison, who brought his arm up in a loose embrace around Sandburg's shoulders.

"Whoa, Chief. It's all right. It's just Dr. Stiles. He's here to help you." Ellison tried to coax Sandburg to stay in the bed.

Sandburg was having none of it, though. He pushed and squirmed, trying to get away from Stiles, panting with the effort.

"Blair!" Ellison raised his voice, command in his tone.

Sandburg froze. He slowly raised a fearful face to look at Ellison. Ellison smiled reassuringly and eased his grip. As Sandburg stared at him, the fear slowly faded from his face to be replaced by a look of profound trust.

"That's it, Chief," Ellison murmured. "It's all right. You can trust him. I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Sandburg slowly turned his head to gaze to the doctor, holding the rest of his body completely still. He didn't flinch away the next time Stiles touched him on the arm, but he also didn't move away from Ellison.

Nick watched the entire thing in amazement. Banks took a deep breath and he realized that he'd been holding his breath as well. He waited silently for the exam to conclude.

Stiles was quick and efficient. The doctor kept up a softly running commentary, talking to them as well as Sandburg, explaining what he was going to do before he did it and touching Sandburg only when absolutely necessary. He made sure that was kept to a minimum, as Sandburg stoically endured every touch, but gentle though Stiles tried to be, the fear and pain that passed over Sandburg's face each time was difficult to watch. At the end of his examination, Stiles moved away from the bed.

Sandburg watched the doctor retreat until he'd crossed some invisible threshold that allowed him to relax. He sagged back against Ellison, turning his face up to see the detective's smiling face beaming down at him. A tentative smile crossed Sandburg's face as he lifted his hand. His fingers trailed down Ellison's cheek and over his chin. He dropped his hand and yawned widely, blinking in surprise.

"You did good, Chief. Bet you're tired, huh?" Ellison helped him ease back down onto the bed and made sure that the covers were pulled up to his chin. "How about you get some sleep, okay partner? I'll be here when you wake up. Sleep now, Blair." He gently ruffled Sandburg's hair.

Sandburg blinked slowly, his eyelids drooping until they stayed shut and his body relaxed into sleep. Ellison stayed where he was, one hand loosely clasped around Sandburg's forearm. He glanced at Stiles and raised an eyebrow.

Stiles cleared his throat and kept his voice low. "Mr. Sandburg is still underweight, of course, but that should be fairly easy to handle. The dehydration is being taken care of by the IV and there should be little to worry about there. It doesn't appear that there are any lasting effects from being unconscious." He shrugged. "I have to say that his lack of a verbal response to anyone is troubling. As is the fear he exhibits. I'd like to schedule a psych consultation with one of our staff psychologists for tomorrow and get his opinion."

Nick glanced from Banks to Ellison, puzzled by the frowns on both their faces. It seemed obvious to him that Sandburg was going to need therapy to ultimately get through whatever had been done to him and that the sooner they started that process, the better off they'd all be. So why did they both look like that was the last thing they wanted to have happen?

Ellison shook his head slowly. "No. I'm sorry doctor, but unless there's some law that says that just because a patient doesn't speak to his doctor that he must submit to a psych exam, well, it's not going to happen. I won't put Sandburg through that."

"Detective Ellison--"

"No." Ellison's voice was flat. "I know Blair. I know him well enough to know what he needs. And I hold his power of attorney. If you try to fight me on this, you'll lose."

"Captain Banks--" Stiles tried again.

"I agree with Jim." Banks straightened and let the full force of his authority as a Captain in the Cascade Police Department be felt. "He knows Sandburg and I trust that he knows what Sandburg really needs. If he says that seeing a psychologist is the wrong thing to do, then it's the wrong thing to do."

Stiles glanced imploringly at Nick, but he wasn't about to get in the middle of this. He shrugged helplessly. Stiles glanced at each man in turn and sighed.

"I don't like it," he said, his tone disapproving. "I don't care how well you think you know your friend, you can't know what he went through and what he'll need to get well mentally and emotionally."

"You're right. I don't know what he went through." Ellison looked grave. "But you're wrong in thinking that I don't know what he needs to get well. He needs to go home. He needs to be with people who care for him and where he feels safe. If he makes the decision later to go see a shrink, well, that'll be his decision. I won't have it forced on him when he's not ready to decide for himself."

"Very well." Stiles expression looked pinched. "I'll note on his chart that the offer was made and that you refused it."

Ellison nodded curtly. "Fine with me. When can I take him home?"

Stiles blinked in confusion. "Not for several days yet."

"Why not?" He cocked his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "You as good as said that he's not in any physical danger."

"Yes, well," Stiles visibly tried to marshal his arguments. "I'd still like to see him hydrated fully before we release him. We can move him out of the CCU into a private room for tonight, then perhaps he can be released tomorrow."

"Tomorrow then." Ellison's expression challenged the doctor to correct him, but Stiles wisely chose to leave the subject alone.

"I'll make the arrangements to have Mr. Sandburg moved." The doctor grabbed his coat and couldn't seem to leave the room fast enough.

"Jim, I don't want to sound like I'm agreeing with the doctor there, but are you sure about this?" Banks asked, concern in his voice.

"I am, Simon."

Banks searched his face and evidently found the answer he was looking for, because he nodded. "All right then."

"Listen, I've got to get back to the Lab." Nick gazed at Sandburg for a long moment. "Detective Ellison, I'll be in touch." He headed for the door when Ellison's voice stopped him and he turned around.

"Nick. If you can call my boss Simon, you ought to be able to call me Jim." Ellison smiled.

"Jim." Nick nodded and left the room, a small smile on his face.


	27. Chapter 27

Jim sat back in the cushioned chair next to Sandburg's bed, grateful for the padding. His body felt lethargic and he needed more sleep, but his mind was racing. Whatever had happened between them last night had happened again when he'd burst into the room to find Sandburg curled up in terror on his bed. When Jim connected with him, when he really got Sandburg to focus on him and not on the doctor, Jim had felt that same surge of joyful emotion that he'd felt the previous night.

He'd clamped down on his shock, needing to calm Sandburg down and get control of the situation. Still, the jolts of emotion that surged through him as he held Sandburg throughout the doctor's examination were nearly enough to make him doubt his sanity. Fear to terror to pain poured through him in waves that he fought to ignore. He wasn't completely successful, but he managed to keep his control well enough. Instinctively he tried to project calm and security, hoping Sandburg would pick up on it. And it had seemed to work, but why?

He'd been adamant about not letting a psychiatrist get his hooks into Sandburg. It wasn't that Jim didn't see the merits of the suggestion. He just couldn't run the risk that a shrink would come up with a legal reason to institutionalize Sandburg. He'd rather take the kid home and get him help there. Maybe it was his own paranoia, but he'd be much happier when they were back in the loft. He snorted. Sandburg was going to love this. He'd probably never hear the end of the lectures about territoriality and protective instincts.

Jim sighed. He could only hope that he'd be hearing those lectures some time soon. What was he going to do if Sandburg didn't speak? He'd give anything for the kid to wake up and tell him he wanted to go home.

He couldn't hide from it, no matter how much he'd rather pretend that it wasn't happening. He was either going to live up to the promises that he'd made while Sandburg was still unconscious or he was going to give in to his fears. Jim leaned forward and loosely clasped his hands between his knees. He gazed at Sandburg's face, so beautiful in repose, and had his answer. He wouldn't willingly choose to live his life without Blair Sandburg in it.

It didn't matter if Sandburg never uttered another word. So long as he wanted to stay with Jim, that's all that mattered. And he was going to make sure that Sandburg knew that Jim wanted him to stay.

He held his breath when Sandburg's eyelids fluttered open. His gaze was warm as he focused on Jim. There was a lucidity in his expression that had been absent earlier. Surely that was a good sign?

"Jim," Sandburg said, his voice a mere whisper.

"Blair." Jim swallowed past the lump in his throat. "How're you feeling?"

Sandburg groaned. "Like I've been run over by a truck. What happened?"

"You're in the hospital. You don't remember?"

Sandburg frowned. His gaze wandered over the room as he searched his memories and Jim knew the moment he began to remember. His body tensed and his breathing grew harsh. Jim was at his side, rubbing his arm and murmuring soothingly, doing his best to ignore the little frissons of fear that swirled through him. The fear gradually subsided and Sandburg's trembling eased, but his expression was troubled as he gazed at Jim.

"I remember being someplace I didn't want to be." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I hurt. And I was afraid. God, Jim, I was so afraid! I couldn't get away and I didn't know what was real and what wasn't. I kept thinking that you would come and get me. Holding onto that thought was the only thing that made any sense to me." His eyes flew open and he stared at Jim in horror. "Am I...am I in a mental hospital or something? I remember doctors. Did I have a breakdown?"

Jim shook his head. "No! You didn't have a breakdown and you aren't in a mental hospital. You were kidnapped and held in a, well, a kind of medical facility. God, Chief, there's no easy way to tell you this."

"Just say it, Jim." His voice was hoarse. "It can't be any worse than what I'm imagining."

"We think..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "We think that whoever had you might have been performing some kind of medical experiments on human subjects."

"Human subjects?" Sandburg swallowed heavily. "You mean...you mean me, right?"

Jim nodded, unable to give voice to his answer.

"What did they do to me?" The fear was back in Sandburg's eyes.

Jim shook his head slowly. "We're not sure, Chief. It doesn't appear that you were touched physically, so far as the doctors could tell when they examined you. But there were traces of drugs in your bloodstream along with some unidentified substances. The Lab is working on making a positive identification. And they still have to go through any records that were found at the facility."

"Oh."

"Chief. Look, I don't want you to worry about it. There's nothing we can do right now except let the drugs work their way through your system. We'll deal with everything after that."

He stared at Jim for a long while and then finally smiled slightly and said, "Together?" The trust in his gaze nearly undid Jim.

"Together." His voice was firm. "Why don't you try to get some sleep? Let your body heal.

Sandburg closed his eyes, only to open them again a few moments later. "Hey Jim? Where are we?"

"The hospital?" Jim frowned.

"No. I mean, what city are we in? We're not in Cascade are we?" He looked confused.

Jim shook his head. "No. We're in Las Vegas." He smiled slightly. "Now go back to sleep. I'll be here."

"Okay." He yawned and closed his eyes. His breathing soon evened out and he slipped into sleep.

With a lighter heart, Jim relaxed back in his chair and closed his eyes. Sandburg was back. Sure, they had a lot to deal with ahead of them, but at least they'd be able to do it together. It wasn't long before Jim followed his partner into an easy slumber.


	28. Chapter 28

Grissom stopped in the doorway to Greg's lab and raised his eyebrows. Nick and Greg were bent over the table, their heads together as they studied a printout. They were so intent on what they were doing they hadn't noticed that he'd entered the room.

"Hey." Their heads whipped up and he waited until he had their attention. "What's going on with those reports from the tox screens on the vics, Greg? They were supposed to have top priority."

"Uh, yes sir. I've got them right here." Greg tapped the papers that they'd just been perusing. "Nick was here when the results were finished and we were, uh." He shot a sideways glance at Nick and then scooped up the sheets and held them out to Grissom. "That is, we were just going to bring them to you."

Grissom accepted the reports and frowned at them. "What were you looking for?" Nick looked uncomfortable. Interesting. "Nick?"

"Greg ran a couple of other tests on the samples. We were comparing the results to the tests he ran on Sandburg's blood sample."

"What other tests?" He searched their faces and narrowed his eyes. "You might as well tell me now."

"Well, I thought I saw something, um, anomalous in the tests I ran on the Sandburg sample. I was curious about it, so I tried a couple of other tests that I'd read about. I kind of had to cobble things together, since we don't actually have the kind of equipment--"

"Greg."

"Sorry. Anyway, I ran these tests and I showed Nick the results and well, he wanted me to run the same tests on the samples from the other victims so we could compare them."

"Greg? What results?" He asked, his patience wearing thin.

"Well, see, I think I found this in Sandburg's blood." Greg slid a paper out from under one of the microscopes and handed it over.

Grissom skimmed it quickly and then went back and carefully re-read one paragraph. He raised an eyebrow. "The retrovirus?"

"Yeah. I can't be positive that that's what I found, because it didn't have exactly the same markers as the other samples, but--"

"But you feel pretty confident about it." Grissom met his gaze. "What about the results from the other victims?"

Nick shook his head. "None of the vics that we found at the facility had the same results as Sandburg."

Grissom pursed his lips and glanced down at the paper. "What about the OD victims that we think are tied in with this case? You thought you'd found a retrovirus in their blood samples, too. Did you compare them?"

"We were just waiting for the results." Greg glanced at Nick. "That's why I hadn't paged you yet to tell you that I was done."

The printer smoothly ejected two sheets of paper with a soft electronic hum. Greg glanced at the results and handed the report to Grissom, with a nod at Nick.

Grissom compared it to the sheet that had the results of the tests on Sandburg's blood. It was very close, but not a perfect match for all of the victims.

"This doesn't make any sense. Why would the overdose victims and Sandburg have signs of the retrovirus, but not the bodies recovered at the MedLab?"

Greg shook his head and shrugged.

"What did you plan to do with this?" Grissom asked.

"Well, I've already talked to Sandburg's doctor." Nick winced when Grissom frowned at him. "I know, I know. I shouldn't have done that without any kind of corroboration. But, well, I thought he should know." Nick raised his hands.

"And?"

"And, he wanted to bring in some researchers from the University."

"Let me get this straight. You took the results of tests that may or may not be valid to the victim's doctor, who in turn wanted to call in yet more people outside of the investigation and you didn't think it was important to tell me about it right away? Like maybe before you did that?" Grissom shook his head. "What were you thinking, Nick?"

"I was thinking that if Sandburg needed special help, that maybe his doctor ought to know about it sooner rather than later." A stubborn expression crossed his face. "And maybe I was thinking that you wouldn't condone it, so I didn't ask first. I'm sorry, Griss, but I still think it was the right thing to do."

Grissom sighed. "We'll deal with all that later. What I need to know now is when can I expect to have these researchers descend upon me?"

"They won't. Dr. Stiles agreed to wait until we approved any action on his part." Nick flushed and glanced away.

"All right. But we're not going to depend on someone else to give us the answers to this. Greg, are there any other tests you can run? Anything that would identify what this retrovirus is supposed to do, assuming that you're right and it really is a retrovirus?"

"I don't think so. The equipment we have is pretty specialized. It's one thing to take DNA samples and compare them, this is something else altogether."

"So, would the University have the right equipment? I'll be more inclined to agree to have them involved if they do."

Greg shook his head. "I already checked. They don't have anything more than what we've got here at the Lab. We might be able to send something to UCLA or Stanford, but it would take time. Sorry."

"Then, I guess we make do with what you can devise. Nick? Can I see you in my office for a moment, please?"

He let the silence stretch between them as they walked down the hallway. Nick was nearly beside himself and by the time Grissom shut the door behind them, he burst into speech.

"I know I shouldn't have done what I did without telling you, but I really think it was the right thing to do. I couldn't pretend that the results weren't possible. And you know Greg. He may be a bit flaky sometimes, but never in his science. I really--"

"Nick." Grissom halted the nervous flow of words. He sat down behind his desk and gestured at the chair on the other side.

Nick sat on the edge of the chair and leaned forward, his expression earnest. Grissom raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I just..."

"Thought it was the right thing to do. I get that, Nick. I really do."

"Then?" Nick frowned, his tone perplexed.

"I didn't call you in here to dress you down for this. You understand what you did wrong. I'll expect you not to make the same mistake again." Grissom leaned back in his chair and swiveled slightly so that he directly faced Nick. "You took a risk and understood that there would be consequences. In your shoes I probably would've done the same thing."

Nick flushed and smiled slightly, his pleasure obvious. "Thanks."

One corner of Grissom's mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Don't thank me too quickly. Since you started this, I'm going to expect you to stay on top of it. If this is a retrovirus and we do get others involved, I want you to be the one to coordinate all of the various players."

"Griss--"

"I know that this might not be what you had in mind." He shook his head, cutting off the protest before Nick could get any further. "You know, I was going to use a sports metaphor, but I think I'll just avoid the cliches. You started this Nick, I'll expect you to see it through."

"I got it." Nick sounded glum. "You're right."

"Good. Now that we've got that out of the way, I'd like to hear your impressions of what's going on. What happened at the hospital?"

Nick gave him a rundown of his visits to the hospital and his encounters with Dr. Stiles and Sandburg. After he described the latest visit, where Sandburg had woken up and freaked out, Grissom sat staring off into space, a frown on his face.

"He didn't talk at all?"

"Nope. Not even to Ellison. It was like he was in some kind of weird fugue state or something. And it really seemed like he was in pain every time the doctor touched him. The only one he'd let near him was Ellison."

"And Ellison refused a psych consult?"

Nick nodded and said, "He didn't say, but I got the feeling that he might be afraid that the result would be a recommendation that Sandburg be admitted to the psych ward."

"Possible."

"Yeah, but I doubt that Ellison would allow it. Anyway, he has the authority to refuse on Sandburg's behalf and that's what he did."

"What was your impression, Nick? Think Sandburg's going to snap out of it in time to be able to help us?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Ellison and Banks are certainly protective of him."

"We're going to need help." Grissom studied him for a moment and then leaned forward. "There weren't any records to be found in that place."

"What?"

"None. No paper records, no computers."

"That's crazy. A place like that, how could they run it without computers?"

"We've finished the preliminary forensic investigation, but there's a team going through the building room by room just looking for records." Grissom sighed. "Whoever ran this thing, they knew what they were doing when it came to medicine. They abandoned expensive equipment, but nothing that stored records of any kind. There were signs that they used computers, but they'd been removed."

"Wait a minute. How did they know to leave?" Nick frowned.

"We think they were tipped off somehow. They obviously didn't have time to take all the medical equipment or to purge the computers. It was faster just to disconnect the CPUs and cart them away."

"Jesus," Nick breathed the word softly. "That means someone in the PD knew about that place and what was going on there."

"I think it's worse than that, Nick. I think the leak may have come from the Lab. I don't have any proof, but it makes the most sense to me."

Nick's expression turned stricken. Grissom didn't blame him. The thought of one of the people they worked with in the Lab being connected, however remotely, with the bodies they'd found sickened Grissom. He could only hope that it wasn't someone from their shift, that it wasn't someone that he knew well.

"Man, I don't want to believe this, but if you're right then we need to find the leak." Nick shook his head. "How do we figure out who it is?"

"I don't know." He tossed his glasses on the desk and rubbed at his eyes. "Plenty of people knew that we were connecting the ODs together. Not as many knew about the Sandburg connection. I guess we narrow down who knew about that and about the planning for the raid on the medical facilities. We could still be talking about dozens of people, though."

"Yeah."

Grissom's cell phone rang. "Grissom. Yeah." He frowned at Nick and sat up straight. "What's the address? Did Robbins--? Yeah, okay. We're on our way."

"What happened?"

"That was Brass. Seems that our newest Assistant Coroner hasn't shown up for work for his past two shifts."

"Mike Hollings?"

Grissom nodded. He grabbed his glasses and stood up. "Robbins tried to contact him several times, but he never answered. Since Hollings lives alone, Doc figured he should send a patrol car around and make sure that he was all right."

"And?"

"They found him hanging from the beam in his living room. He left a suicide note. Brass says it implicates him in the multiple homicides."

"Hollings was the leak?" Nick's eyes widened.

"Maybe so. We're going over there now and see what we can find." He tossed Nick a set of car keys. "You drive."

"You got it."


	29. Chapter 29

"Mr. Sandburg, I strongly recommend against this." Dr. Stiles's voice was disapproving.

Sandburg glanced at Jim and said, his voice soft and hesitant, "I appreciate your concern, doctor. I'll be okay. I've got Jim to help me."

Stiles sighed. "Very well. I can't keep you here against your will. You'll need to sign those forms indicating that you're checking yourself out of the hospital against medical advice."

Jim placed a warm hand on his friend's shoulder. "We understand. We're ready to go now. Thank you, Doctor."

Sandburg signed his name at the bottom of the form and handed the clipboard back to Dr. Stiles.

A tall orderly waited by the door with a wheelchair and at the doctor's nod, brought it over. Jim helped Sandburg slide off the bed and into the chair. The continued near-silence from Sandburg worried him and he had to exercise tight control not to let that worry spill over into his demeanor. Right now all he wanted to do was get back to their hotel room and away from prying eyes.

"I'll push the chair," Jim said as he grasped the handles firmly.

"Sorry, but hospital regs--"

"Jerry." Stiles shook his head. "It's all right. Just go with them."

Jerry raised his eyebrows, but said, "Yes Doctor."

He held the door open for Jim to push the chair through and then followed a couple of steps behind them. The ride down in the elevator was uneventful, but once they reached the main floor of the hospital, it was another story.

As the elevator doors opened, Jim could sense the rising tension in Sandburg. He slowly pushed the chair out into the corridor, trying to judge a path to the exit that had the fewest people.

The further their way through the busy lobby, the more Jim felt a rising anxiety. The urge to leave, run, get out of there grew until he was nearly choking from it. It was irrational and it took him a few moments to figure out that it wasn't coming from him, it was coming from Sandburg.

Jim abruptly stopped pushing the wheelchair and placed his palm on the back of Sandburg's neck under the ponytail that attempted to contain his wild mane. Sandburg twitched under his hand and the anxious feeling nearly doubled in strength, but Jim maintained the contact, pouring as much confidence and calmness as he could into his thoughts. It worked, though he still didn't have a clue why. Sandburg began to relax, the anxiety that Jim sensed receded.

"Sir?" Jerry frowned. "The exit is just that way." He pointed across the lobby to the impossible to miss double glass doors.

"Yeah. We just need a moment, okay?" Jim kept his voice level.

"Sure. No problem," Jerry said, his voice polite. He stepped back to wait for them.

Jim glanced down at the top of Sandburg's head. "It's all right, Chief. We'll take it slow, okay? Think you're ready to try moving again?"

The only acknowledgement was an abrupt nod of Sandburg's head.

Jim squeezed his neck lightly and removed his hand. He glanced over at Jerry and nodded, slowly pushing the chair forward again. While he could still feel the tension in Sandburg, the anxiety had lessened. He refused to dwell on what was happening to them, the need to get them out of there more important at the moment. They'd deal with whatever this was when they were safe and in private.

Jerry stepped into sensor range of the exit and the automatic doors slid open. Jim could see Simon leaning on his rental car, parked just beyond the curve of the driveway. When he saw them coming, he pushed himself off the car and opened the rear passenger door. He had a smile on his face at the sight of Sandburg and his eyes were suspiciously bright. Jim fought back a knowing grin.

"Sandburg. Good to see you, kid. Ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

Sandburg nodded and sorrow crossed Simon's face when he didn't get a smart answer in reply. It was a fleeting expression, replaced with a warm smile, but Jim understood how he felt.

"Okay, Chief. Let's get you in the car."

Jim locked the wheels of the chair and came around in front. He held out his hand and was pleased when Sandburg grasped it without hesitation. He pulled steadily and soon had him up and standing. Jim put his arm around the kid's shoulders and guided him the few feet to the car, helping him to slide into the back seat. He put his hand on the top of the door, preventing it from closing.

"Jim?"

"I think I'll sit in back with Blair." He ignored Simon's raised eyebrows and turned to the orderly. "Jerry? You'll take care of the wheelchair?"

Jerry nodded. "That's my job and the least I can do, since you did all the work." He glanced in the car and added, "I hope everything turns out all right."

"Thanks." Dismissing the hospital as no longer relevant, Jim slid into the back seat. "Hey, Chief. How about we get buckled up for the ride to the hotel, huh?"

When Sandburg just looked at him, Jim pasted a smile on his face and reached over to pull the belt around his waist and fasten the buckle. He performed the same task for himself and then nodded at Simon's waiting reflection in the rear view mirror.

"We're good here, Simon."

The ride to the hotel was made in an odd silence. At any other time, Sandburg would be talking about anything and everything--the history of Las Vegas, the psychology of gambling and his opinion that casinos played on the addiction factor while publicly providing treatment services, the ecology of the region and more. His silence now felt unnatural.

To add to it all, Jim's senses were on some kind of hyperactive alert. They weren't spiking or causing him problems. On the contrary, they were all sharper than ever and completely focused. Sensory input was filtered for a specific thing--threat assessment. Whoever did this to Sandburg was still out there and therefore still a danger to him.

The journey across the hotel lobby to the bank of elevators was made swiftly, with Jim on one side of Sandburg and Simon on the other. If anyone even looked curiously at Sandburg, a single intimidating glare from either of the large men next to him caused them to hastily glance away.

They were alone in the elevator and Jim finally breathed a soft sigh of relief as Sandburg relaxed. Jim met Simon's curious gaze across the top of Sandburg's head and he frowned trying to convey that he'd talk to him later. Simon shrugged slightly.

Their room was on the 22nd floor and when the elevator slowed to a stop on the fifth floor, Jim narrowed his eyes. A noisy group of giggling twenty-something women piled into the car with them and one of them pressed the button for the 14th floor.

Jim could feel the anxiety rolling off Sandburg as if it were a tangible thing and he unobtrusively hooked his hand under his elbow and pulled him back into the corner of the car. He stepped in front of his friend, essentially blocking him from view. When Simon stepped sideways, completing the human wall of protection, Jim flashed him a grateful smile.

The gaggle of women exited the elevator on the 14th floor and Jim and Simon both eased away from Sandburg, giving him room to breathe. His face was pale and he had a white-knuckled grasp on the railing that ran around the inside of the car at waist height. He was trembling slightly, but he wouldn't meeting Jim's eyes; his gaze was fixed on the carpet. Jim let him alone, hoping he could get his equilibrium back.

Simon used his keycard to open the door to their suite and ushered them inside. Sandburg stopped in the middle of the common room and stared, turning around in a circle, mouth open in astonishment. Jim smiled at his reaction.

"Pretty cool, huh, Chief? The LVPD has some contacts and they arranged for the suite for us." Jim kept his tone light.

"Cool." His tone of voice was soft and the word was nearly a question, as if Sandburg wasn't quite sure what it meant, but at least he'd responded.

"Yeah." Simon cleared his throat. "Jim, why don't you show him your room? Maybe he'd like to lie down for awhile."

Sandburg shook his head slowly. "Not tired." He wrinkled his nose and gazed at Jim. "I feel dirty."

"Bet you'd like a shower. Wash off the hospital, huh? I know that's always the first thing I want to do when I get released."

A silent nod was his only reply. Jim kept a smile fixed on his face as he put his arm around Sandburg's shoulder and led him to the bedroom they'd share. Their private bath had a shower stall in it and it would be easier for Sandburg to use than the shower and tub combination in Simon's bathroom.

"You need any help in there, Chief?"

"No thanks, Jim." His voice was tremulous. "I think I can handle taking a shower by myself."

"Okay. I'll put out some clean clothes on the bed for you." Jim watched him head for the bathroom, feeling suddenly out of his depth. "Ah, if you do need me, just call. Okay?"

Sandburg closed the door behind him, but Jim heard his reply clearly.

"Okay. Thanks Jim."

"No problem, Chief," he whispered.

Simon was hanging up the suite phone when Jim entered the common room. It surprised him that he hadn't heard it ring, but then he'd focused all of his attention on Sandburg.

"That was Grissom." Simon crossed his arms over his chest. "He wants us to meet him at the Lab."

"No way." Jim walked to the window and stared out at the late afternoon sky. "I'm not taking Sandburg out of this room and I'm not leaving him here by himself. You go on ahead, Simon. You can tell us if there's anything that we need to know."

"Jim--"

"What part of no don't you get?" he asked sharply. "You saw him. Do you really think he'd last more than five minutes at the Crime Lab?"

He turned away from the window and his eyes widened as he took in the pain on Simon's face.

"Simon?"

"I agree with you, Jim. That's what I was trying to tell you before you went off half-cocked." He shook his head. "I told Grissom there was no way that we could do it, so he suggested that his team meet with us here."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You were thinking of your partner and I understand that." Simon sighed, his expression sad. "Just try to remember that I care about the kid too, okay? I wouldn't deliberately put him in a situation that would hurt him. Speaking of which?"

"I know what you're going to ask. I don't know, okay? I don't have any answers. I wish I did."

Simon dropped into an overstuffed chair next to the small cocktail table. "Can you tell me what you're sensing? I know there's something going on. I...this is going to sound crazy, but in the elevator? It was almost like I could feel Sandburg's fear, like it was my own." He wiped his hand over his face and said, "Told you it'd sound crazy."

Jim leaned back against the wet bar and shook his head. "Doesn't sound crazy to me. I experienced the same thing. It started night before last. I thought I was going crazy, that I'd imagined it. Then it happened again yesterday when I was trying to calm him down for the doctor." He swallowed hard. "I had the crazy idea that if I could remain calm, maybe project that to him, that it would help. And I'll be damned if it didn't seem like it worked."

"I don't understand."

"That makes two of us."

"Has this ever happened before?" A distinctly uncomfortable expression crossed Simon's face. "Maybe at the fountain? I never really asked you about what happened there."

"You didn't want to know. You've never wanted to know." Jim's voice was flat and he couldn't prevent his words from sounding accusing, though he didn't mean it the way Simon would take it.

"I want to know now."

"Do you? Really? Because I'll tell you, Simon, if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't want to know either. I can't tell you what's happening now. I wish I could. It isn't anything like what I experienced when Blair...drowned. What happened that day was definitely related to the sentinel stuff. But this? I honestly don't know."

"But you did feel it?" Simon pressed. "You felt Sandburg's emotions, too, right?"

"Yes."

"God. Do you think it has anything to do with that stuff he has in his bloodstream? That retrovirus stuff and those other drugs?"

Jim sighed. "Who knows? Simon, you're asking the wrong person. I've never heard of anything like this being possible, but I'm sure as hell no scientist."

"Are we going to bring this up with Grissom and his crew?"

He shook his head rapidly. "No. God, no. We don't know what it is and I'm not going to have strangers poking and prodding at Sandburg. Maybe writing him up as some kind of weird case study. I won't have him made into some kind of freak over this or hauled off by the government because they want to make him their pet lab rat."

Simon blinked. "I hadn't thought of that. You don't really think that's a possibility, do you?"

He smiled grimly. "If we're really feeling Sandburg's emotions, if he's able to feel ours, don't you think that the government would be interested in him? In what he can do? Isn't that some kind of mind power, like ESP or something? Who's to say that what we rescued him from wasn't some kind of government experiment in the first place?"

"Shit. That's pretty paranoid even for you."

"Yeah."

They sat in an uncomfortable silence, neither denying that they both thought it a possibility. Both lost in thoughts of worst case scenarios. Both picturing how they'd found Sandburg, strapped to a gurney, left to die as if he were no more important than a white rat that had outlived its usefulness. Both picturing all the other bodies they'd found as well.


	30. Chapter 30

A few minutes later the door to the bedroom opened and Sandburg slowly walked into the room. He wore the clothes that Jim had laid out on the bed for him--a soft blue-and-white plaid flannel shirt over a white henley and a pair of well-washed jeans. A thick pair of white socks covered his feet. His shirts were untucked and the loose tails, no shoes and damp hair curling around his face made him seem young and vulnerable.

His gaze drifted from Simon to Jim, where it lingered as if he were drawing strength from what he saw. He slowly crossed the room to lean against the bar next to Jim, their arms brushing. Jim felt the electricity that jolted up his arm and as he took in Sandburg's surprised expression, Jim realized that he had felt it too and didn't understand what was happening any more than they did.

"Jim?" Sandburg's eyes were wide as he gazed up at him. "Wh-what is that?"

"I don't know." Sandburg was still too pale for his liking. "Come on, Chief, let's go sit down before you fall down."

Jim put a hand on Sandburg's shoulder, ignoring the amazing tingling sensation that flowed up his arm, and urged him towards the sectional couch. He steered their feet to the U-shaped portion of the couch, making sure that Sandburg sat deep in the pillows covering the curve. Jim sat next to him on the long side with his back to the window. If the kid got tired, he could stretch out on the short side of the sectional. It would be a good excuse to keep anyone else from sitting there and it had the added benefit of keeping him next to Jim as well without Jim being accused of hovering.

Sandburg tucked his feet up on the couch, curling into the pillows and leaning lightly against Jim as nonchalantly as if it were something that he'd normally do. The slight tremors running through him told another story, as did the mixture of fear, apprehension and determination that flooded Jim's mind. He wanted to reach out and put his arm around him, but Sandburg needed to be able to deal and wouldn't always want to be helped. If things seemed to be getting too hard for him, Jim would step in. Until then, he'd take a wait and see attitude.

Once he was settled, Sandburg closed his eyes and sighed. "Tell me."

Simon didn't even try to pretend that he didn't understand. "We don't know much more than the basics."

Sandburg's eyes opened and his expression was serious. "Then tell me the basics. Why are we in Las Vegas?"

Jim exchanged a troubled glance with Simon. He'd asked the same thing the night before, but Jim had hoped that he'd remember at least that much by now. What else didn't he remember, or put another way, how much had he forgotten?

"Tell him, Jim. He has the right to know whatever we can tell him." Simon's voice was firm.

"What about influencing his statement?"

"Screw his statement. This is us. We need to figure this out and if we can help the Las Vegas PD at the same time, well that's great. But first and foremost is taking care of our own."

A small smile played on Jim's mouth, but he wrestled it into submission, though he couldn't keep it from shining in his eyes. "Yes sir."

"Oh shut up."

"I can't really tell Sandburg anything and shut up at the same time, Simon."

"Ellison." Simon's voice deepened into a near-growl.

Jim felt Sandburg shaking against him and he glanced down in concern, only to find him grinning from ear to ear and laughing silently. He raised his eyebrows at Simon's satisfied smile. God it felt good to joke around and not feel like the sky was going to fall in on them at any moment.

"Yes sir," Jim said again. He sat back on the couch and got comfortable. That Sandburg stretched out next to him and did the same and just happened to end up with his head leaning on Jim's shoulder was a pleasant bonus.

"Well, Chief, it's like this," he began and told him as much of the story as he knew, starting with the day that Naomi stopped by the loft for a visit. There were several interruptions, from both Simon and Sandburg, and he only managed to get to the point where they were about to raid the MedLab property with the LVPD when there was a sharp rap on the door.

Simon frowned. "It's been awhile since I've seen you surprised by someone coming to the door."

Jim flushed. "I guess I've had my senses focused on Sandburg without realizing it." He smiled wryly. "Sorry about that, Chief."

Sandburg smiled back and said, "I don't mind, Jim. I kind of like it. Makes me feel safe, I guess."

Simon let in the crew from the Crime Lab. Jim was even more startled to find that Grissom had three of his people with him, including the one--Sara?--that he'd taken off of the case a few days ago. But then, since all of the bodies had been discovered, this would have become a hot case, wouldn't it? Jim frowned. This should be the hottest news story around, so why hadn't they had to deal with the press? Not that he was complaining.

"Captain. Detective." Grissom smiled at them.

"I told you, call me Simon. I'm not here in an official capacity, remember?"

"And I'm Jim."

"And you must be Mr. Sandburg." Grissom approached the couch and held out his hand. He didn't react to Sandburg's shrinking back onto the couch. "I'm Gil Grissom, Las Vegas Crime Lab."

They all waited quietly while Sandburg visibly made up his mind about whether to shake Grissom's hand or not. Jim wasn't sure what tipped the scale, but Sandburg slowly leaned forward and clasped his hand briefly, but firmly.

As he settled back onto the couch he said, in a soft voice, "Blair. Please. Call me Blair."

Grissom gave him a small smile. "Blair." He took a seat on one of the bar stools and was immediately flanked by the women of the group. "This is Sara and Catherine. Warrick, the other member of my team will be along shortly. And, of course, you've met Nick."

Nick glanced around the room as if trying to decide where to sit. He looked unsure if he should sit on the couch next to Jim or take one of the chairs at the small table off to the side of the room.

Sandburg gazed at Nick for a long moment. "I remember you. You were at the hospital. You helped."

Nick raised his eyebrows. "Hey. Yeah. Well, I tried anyway. Glad to see you're feeling better."

Jim caught Nick's gaze and jerked his head at the couch next to him, indicating that Nick should sit there. He sat gingerly, trying not to look too surprised when he sank into the soft couch.

"It's a bit like being swallowed up by a feather bed, isn't it?" Jim asked. "Don't try to fight it. I guarantee you'll lose. Just relax and you'll be fine."

Nick smiled slightly, but he slowly pushed until his back rested against the cushions.

"Are we all settled now?" Grissom asked, his voice dry. "Good. Maybe we can get down to it. This is the only case that we're working. I've assigned my entire team and I fully expect to have additional help from some of the day shift. However, graveyard caught it, so it stays with us. And it won't be easy. The medical group that leased the building was a blind. All of the names and addresses given to the property management company were bogus."

Simon frowned. "No leads there at all?"

"The transactions were all done via phone and fax. All bank accounts have been closed and the money trail looks like a dead end. No witnesses. That area is full of medical buildings. We could be a long time finding anyone who can make any kind of positive identification of the people who went in and out of that particular facility."

"Damn." Simon glanced at Jim. "I suppose it was too much to hope that it'd be that easy."

"Whoever was behind this, they were clever and they knew what they were doing by hiding in plain sight." Grissom sighed. "I'm getting pressure from the Sheriff to wrap up the evidence, but even he understands that the scope of this thing is huge."

"Does that mean that he'll back off?" Catherine asked, and raised an eyebrow.

"For awhile. But it won't last long." Grissom smiled at Simon wryly. "Our Sheriff has ambitions of being Mayor one day. He tends to think that I'm out to personally put obstacles in his path."

"Are you?" Simon asked curiously.

Grissom shook his head. "No. He refuses to understand that my refusal to cut corners on the quality of our work isn't personal. I won't do it for anyone, not just him."

Simon smiled slightly. "Your Sheriff sounds like our Chief of Police. Scruples and principles are only acceptable when they work in his favor. I can't tell you how many arguments we've had."

"Usually about me," Jim acknowledged with a small shake of his head.

"And me," Sandburg added, his voice low. Jim smiled at him.

"Yeah, well, he was wrong in every case, so it wasn't much of a hardship for me." Simon shrugged. "How can we help?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to share what we know. Maybe we can come up with leads based on the evidence."

Simon nodded. "All right by me, but I'm not the one with the final say in this."

They all turned to Jim, who shook his head and glanced at Sandburg. "What do you think, Chief?"

Sandburg gazed up at him and licked his lips. "I don't know how much help I can be, but I'm willing to try."

Jim turned to Grissom and said, "You've got your answer, then."

"Good. Thank you, Blair. I know that this may get difficult for you and I appreciate your willingness to work with us."

"So, what've you got?" Simon asked.

Grissom hesitated and his gaze flicked to Sandburg before returning to Simon. "We know that someone at the Crime Lab was involved, at least indirectly."

Jim stiffened and was about to demand to know who it was, when Sandburg put a hand on his arm. The fear that shot through him made Jim sit back and try to calm down. He exchanged a silent glance with Sandburg and wondered how they could communicate so thoroughly without the use of words.

"Tell us." Simon's voice held a hint of command.

"It seems that one of the new Assistant Coroners was connected in some way. He was found dead in his home, hanging from a beam in his living room, an apparent suicide."

"Apparent?" Jim asked, his voice harsh. "You're not sure?"

"Sorry. Apparent because all of the evidence hasn't been sifted through yet. Nick and I are the ones who worked the scene and I never call a case until the evidence speaks." Grissom's expression was grim. "He left a suicide note that said he couldn't live with the guilt of having been associated with MedLab and that he'd had no idea that they were experimenting on people."

"I'm not sure I buy that," Nick said. "I think he knew, but he didn't know how many people and what they planned to do at the end. That's what he couldn't live with."

"What do you mean? There were others?" Sandburg asked, alarm on his face. "How many people, besides me?"

Jim sighed. They hadn't gotten to the part of the story where they'd searched the building. He didn't like having to tell him about it with an audience watching. Sandburg was bound to be upset. Jim didn't like exposing him to others who might not be quite so understanding of his emotions.

"Of course there were. You didn't think that entire medical facility was set up just for you, did you?"

Sara's voice grated on Jim's nerves. He couldn't decide what it was exactly--her intonation, the pitch, or the fact that she was the one who spoke up--and he didn't really care. He was more concerned about his partner's reaction to her words. Sandburg shrank back into the pillows and curled his legs up as if trying to hide or at least make himself a smaller target.

"Sara." Grissom's voice held a note of censure.

"What?" She looked puzzled.

Grissom turned to her. "Why don't we let Blair tell us what he remembers rather than assuming what he must know?"

"Come on, Grissom. You saw that place. How could he be there for as long as he was and not know what was happening?"

There was a challenge in her voice and Jim recognized that it was directed at Grissom and not Sandburg. But the faint derision he thought he heard raised his hackles. He leaned forward, ready to rip her a new one, when Grissom took the wind out of his sails.

"Sara." This time Grissom's voice was sharp. "That's enough. We've already had this conversation. If you have a problem with the way I'm running this investigation, we'll discuss it privately."

Sara's mouth turned down at the corners in a manner that suggested to Jim that it was a common expression for her. She folded her arms over her chest and refused to meet anyone's gaze, especially Grissom's. None of the others looked happy with the situation.

Grissom's expression was grave as he turned back to them. "Blair? I'm sorry. Sara didn't mean anything by what she said. In our line of work we're trained to be suspicious and sometimes it's hard to let that go."

"It's okay." His voice was low and subdued. "I understand."

"What can you tell us about what happened to you?" Grissom cocked his head and smiled slightly.

Sandburg straightened his legs out and relaxed fractionally. "Not a lot, I'm afraid. I didn't even realize we were in Las Vegas until Jim told me while I was in the hospital."

"Whatever you can remember might help, Chief." Jim nudged him with his shoulder. "Don't worry about trying to make sense of your memories. We'll do that later."

"Well," Sandburg hesitated. "I remember, now, being in New Mexico. You'd like it there, Jim. The air was so clear and the night sky was amazing." A ghost of his normal enthusiasm crept into his voice, making Jim smile.

"I bet I would."

"The retreat wasn't exactly what Naomi was expecting," he continued with a rueful smile. "I think she thought it was going to be some kind of new age type place, you know? Instead, it was an exclusive spa that caters to the moderately wealthy."

 

 

__

_"My, this is just a bit ostentatious, don't you think, Howie?" Naomi smiled brightly, but Blair was good at reading his mother. That smile was as fake as a four dollar bill._

_He managed not to laugh at the comical expression on her face when good ol' Howie shrugged. She'd probably expected him to beg her forgiveness and admit that he'd sold out. That wasn't happening._

_"You know, Naomi, things aren't like they were when we were kids. It isn't always morally wrong to make money. And even those who have money need a place to go to recharge." Howie smiled. "I've been trying to get you out here for ages. Why not just relax and enjoy the amenities. Blair? I'm glad you could make it."_

_"Thanks." Blair glanced around the manicured lawn that sloped down from the main building. "I'm sure I'll enjoy my stay. And so will Naomi."_

_Howie glanced at his watch. "I've got an appointment in town that I've got to make. I'm sorry I can't stay to see you get settled. Go on in to the desk and Susan will see that you're taken care of. We'll have dinner together tonight, all right? I'd love to catch up on what you've both been up to."_

_Blair watched him stride away and tried to reconcile the tall, perfectly groomed silver-haired man with the lanky, scruffy twenty-something that he remembered from his early childhood. The pictures in his head wouldn't line up, no matter how hard he tried._

_"Hmmph." Naomi sniffed loudly and Blair bit his lower lip to keep from chuckling at the disapproving expression on her face. "I just don't know what's happened to Howie. He's turned into someone I don't even recognize."_

_"Now, Naomi, I'm sure that he's the same old Howie underneath it all." He wrapped an arm around her waist and coaxed her toward the entrance. "Why don't we get our rooms and go relax for a bit. I'm sure that you'll figure out a way to bring out the Howie you remember." Blair smiled sweetly, wondering all the while why she could never recognize when he was having her on._

_The rest of his time at the resort was a contradiction. He took solitary hikes and spent as much time alone as he could. That part of the trip was great. The other part of the trip was spent in the company of a determined Naomi and that part was excruciating. He loved his mother, but when she was in one of those moods she never let up._

_After a week, he'd come to some personal decisions and knew that he needed to return to Cascade. In truth, he wasn't sorry to leave the resort. Naomi's presence had been exhausting for him. He'd felt obligated to try to run interference between her and Howie whenever he could and it just wasn't working. He was surprised the poor man hadn't asked them to leave after the first couple of days._

 

 

"How long were you originally supposed to stay?" Catherine asked.

"A few weeks. Maybe a month." Sandburg sighed and leaned against Jim, closing his eyes.

"You okay Chief?" Jim asked, his voice low.

"Yeah. Just a little tired. I'll be all right." He opened his eyes and sat up.

"What happened after you left the resort?" Nick asked.

"I took a bus, I think. I definitely remember being on a bus, but I also vaguely remember being on an airplane."

Jim nodded. "From what I was able to piece together, you took a bus from Taos to the Albuquerque airport and then caught a flight to Las Vegas. The flights from Albuquerque to Cascade were booked, but the ticket agent was able to get you a connecting flight from Vegas to Cascade."

"Oh." Sandburg frowned. "I don't remember anything about being in Vegas."

"Jim was able to track your stuff to one of those temporary lockers at the airport." Simon rubbed his chin. "You had twelve hours between your flights and he thought you might've decided to check out the Strip."

He smiled wryly. "Sounds about right. Maybe that's what I did, but I don't remember it."

"What do you remember?" Catherine asked, her gaze intent.

"Not much that makes sense." He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "Mostly jumbled impressions. I remember being afraid. Terrified, really. I remember thinking that I was going crazy. And I remember pain. A lot of pain." His voice caught and he started to tremble.

Jim didn't even think twice. He reached out and drew him into the circle of his arm and held tight. Sandburg dropped his head onto Jim's shoulder and let his hair fall forward to cover his face. He snaked an arm around Jim's waist and held on as if he were afraid to let go. Words were mumbled into Jim's shirt, but he made them out as if they were clearly spoken. What he heard sent chills up his spine.

_"Jim's coming. Won't let go. Have to hold on. Won't forget."_

He brought his other arm around and held his friend in a tight embrace. Nothing was more important to him than this. The rest of the world could go take a flying leap for all he cared at that moment. Confusion, fear and pain reached all the way into his soul. Jim concentrated fiercely on feeling calm and safe.

The others were silent for several long moments; the only sound in the room was Sandburg's harsh breathing. It was as if the two of them were an island of reality in a sea of irrelevance. Nothing could touch them so long as Jim was on guard. And he'd be on guard for as long as it took. That much he swore to himself.

The fear began to ebb and as Sandburg's breathing finally evened out his body grew limp in Jim's embrace. Jim eased him down on the couch and gently brushed the long curls away from his face. His emotions had exhausted him, leaving him dead to the world. Simon unfolded a blanket and tucked the soft material around the sleeping figure.

"Thanks," Jim said, his voice husky.

Simon nodded and turned to the others. "I think we can continue this without Sandburg. I'd say that he doesn't know anything that's going to be useful insofar as gathering evidence is concerned." His voice was low, but his tone was stern, letting them know that he'd brook no arguments regarding his decision.

Grissom nodded slowly. "I agree. It's a shame, because from everything you and Jim have said about that young man, his observations would be invaluable."

Jim placed a small pillow on his lap and settled Sandburg's head on it. Appearances be damned, he wasn't going to push Sandburg aside because someone might not like what they saw. And it had the added benefit of allowing him to rest his arm over Sandburg's shoulder, maintaining physical contact with his partner without being obtrusive about it.

"So, what about the guy who committed suicide? Excuse me--may have committed suicide?" Simon asked.

"Mike Hollings." Nick shook his head slowly. "I still can't believe he was involved. He seemed so...so..." His voice trailed off as he struggled to find the right words to describe the  man.

"Normal." Sara shrugged. "That's the way he struck me, anyway. Normal. Average. Nothing stood out about him. I remember asking David a few days ago if he was good at his job."

"David?" Jim asked.

"David is another of our Assistant Coroners. He mostly works graveyard, so we know him pretty well." Catherine smiled slightly. "David has a crush on Sara."

"Could we stay on topic, please?" Grissom asked sternly, but Jim saw that his mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile.

"Sorry," Catherine said, her tone entirely unrepentant.

"Yes." Sara smiled sardonically and Jim relaxed a bit more. "Anyway, David avoided answering my question."

"He did?" Catherine frowned. "That's not like him."

"No. It's not. It got me curious."

"Sara? What did you do?" Grissom asked, sounding much like an apprehensive father.

"Nothing too bad." Jim was surprised when she looked guilty. "I just sort of looked him up. On the internet? You know it's amazing what you can find out about a person with a quick Google search these days."

"Sara," Grissom said reprovingly, then he raised an eyebrow. "And? What'd you find?"

"Actually, not a lot. It's almost as if Mike Hollings didn't exist up until six months or so ago. At least, that's what it looked like from the search I did."

"But that doesn't make any sense at all." Nick frowned. "How could he have passed the employment screen if his identity was phony?"

The obvious conclusion hit them all at the same time and they stared at one another in growing horror. It was also obvious that no one wanted to be the one to actually say it out loud. Jim could understand the feeling; he knew how he'd feel if he'd discovered something similar about Major Crime.

"Someone else in the department is involved." Jim rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand and added, "At least one someone."

"At least?" Catherine frowned. "Why at least?"

"It all depends on who was running this thing, what it was about, and how deeply into the government they're connected." Jim sighed.

"Well, you're certainly the cynical one." Sara grimaced. "But I see your point."

"Who do you trust?" Simon asked Grissom pointedly.

"The people in this room. Warrick Brown. Jim Brass. One or two others at the Lab."

"That isn't very many." Jim took in the astonished expressions on the faces of Grissom's team. "But it's probably realistic, considering."

Grissom nodded. "I won't jeopardize this investigation by making assumptions that I can't back up with evidence."

"What?" Sara looked stunned. "You're saying you don't trust people at the Lab?"

The way she said it conjured a vision of a church filled with computers and electron microscopes and an altar of stainless steel covered with test tubes and petrie dishes. Jim blinked away the irreverent picture. Where was his head?

A sharp rap on the door to the suite interrupted whatever Grissom was going to say. Simon glanced at Jim, but he didn't know who was out there, so he shook his head, earning a frown. Could he help it if he didn't always know who was at the door? Of course not. And Simon would realize that if he'd only bother to think it through.

A quick glance through the peephole and Simon opened the door to admit Warrick Brown, the last member of Grissom's team. Warrick carried a folder and he handed it to Grissom before turning to them. He gazed down at Sandburg for a long moment, his face troubled.

"Sandburg?"

"He'll be all right."

Warrick nodded. "Good." He walked around behind Grissom and the others and leaned on the bar near Catherine.

Grissom glanced up from the folder. "This is good work Warrick. How'd you get all of this so quickly?"

Warrick shrugged. "A lot of it was in files stashed at his house. It looked like he'd been bringing home papers from the MedLab that he wasn't supposed to for a long time. It took me awhile to find them. In fact, I almost didn't. But once I had the information in those papers, I knew where to begin looking for more."

"You think he was murdered." Grissom made it a statement.

"Yeah. So does Robbins. There were hand and finger marks on his neck. Whoever choked him tried to cover it up by using a rough textured rope, but they only succeeded in creating more bruises that didn't belong. We used the ultraviolet camera and found the bruises where the killer placed his or her hands."

"What about the suicide note that you said you found at the scene?" Simon asked. "Was it in this Hollings guy's handwriting?"

"Oh, it was his handwriting all right. The report from Questionable Documents says that it was probably written under duress. It's hard to discern the difference though from the stress a suicide is under, so that's inconsequential. But taken with everything else, I have to go with murder."

Sandburg shifted his position on the couch, sighing. Jim slowly stroked his hand down the kid's arm, soothing him back to a deeper sleep. He tried to keep his thoughts calm, rational, focused on the facts, but it was difficult to do when his reptilian brain was screaming at him to bundle Sandburg up and take him some place so far away that no one could find them. The detective in his head began stomping all over that little reptile until it turned tail to go sulk in a dark corner of his brain. The twisted knot in the pit of his stomach told him that Sandburg was still in danger and it was going to take all of them thinking clearly to make sure that danger was eliminated.


	31. Chapter 31

"Where do we go from here?" Simon asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"We find out who else in the Lab is involved." Grissom frowned. "That's going to be difficult."

"Nothing in those papers to help?"

He shook his head. "A few hints that might apply to several people, but no names."

"I vote for Eckley." Nick grinned. "I mean, come on. Who else would you put on the most likely list? The man's got as much empathy as a cockroach."

"Nick." Grissom's voice reproved, but the twitch of his lips told a different story.

"I'm with Nick." Catherine smiled at Jim. "Day shift supervisor with delusions of competency."

"Maybe." Sara shook her head. "Eckley's an ass, but I've never had the feeling that he would do anything that could be considered thinking outside the box."

"Yeah, well this would be so far outside that you couldn't even see the box. I'm with Sara." Warrick grimaced. "But somebody on his shift? Now that I can picture."

"What're the hints?" Catherine asked Grissom.

"It's not much. In one place he says that he's figured out that there's someone else at the Lab that's working on The Project."

"Project? With a capital P?" Catherine frowned. "Kind of a melodramatic guy, wasn't he?"

Grissom snorted softly. "Wait'll you read some of this, especially where he waxes poetic about the so-called future benefits."

"No thanks. I'll wait for the movie. So, what else is there?"

"Just a bunch of stuff about him trying to figure out who the other person is and then a note that he now thinks there are at least two others." He glanced at Catherine.

"Two? And he doesn't say who he thinks they are?"

"Yes. And no."

"Great." She sighed.

"We're back to where do we go from here." Simon shook his head. "Surely you must have some ideas?"

"Ideas? Sure. Serious contenders? No." Grissom shook his head. "As for the rest, well, that all depends on the three of you."

"What do you mean?" Jim involuntarily tightened his arm around Sandburg's shoulders.

"How long are you willing to stick around? We could break this open tomorrow or it might take awhile. How long will you stay?"

Jim's nostrils flared. "As long as it takes. Sandburg will never be safe until we find the people who did this and put them away."

"Jim," Simon said and hesitated for a moment before adding, "Of course. I wouldn't expect anything different from you. I, on the other hand, will have to go home after awhile. My vacation will only last so long."

"Vacation?" Sara frowned. "I thought you were here on official business."

"That only lasted for a couple of days. Just long enough to make an official declaration that the dead body wasn't Sandburg. The rest of the time here has been vacation." He shrugged.

"What about you, Jim?" Grissom asked.

"He's on personal leave. Once I saw the shape the kid's in, I made a point to put him on it indefinitely. I don't want anyone trying to force his hand to come back if he's not ready." He smiled wryly at Jim. "Not even me."

"Thanks Simon."

Simon frowned. "Don't thank me. I expect you to eventually get your sorry ass back to work."

"Yeah."

"Why did you need to know how long they'd be around?" Catherine asked.

Instead of answering her, Grissom glanced at Nick. "Did you bring it?"

"It's out in the truck. You want me to go get it?"

Grissom nodded. "Take one of their keys with you."

Simon handed Nick his cardkey without protest. Sandburg moved restlessly on the couch, muttering under his breath. When attempts at soothing him back to sleep failed, Jim made an effort to wake him. He barely managed not to laugh when Sandburg sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking remarkably like a sleepy little kid with his hair wild around his face.

"Hey, Chief." Jim smiled gently. "How ya doin'?"

"'Kay." He yawned widely and blinked in surprise.

"mm-hmm." Jim cocked his head. "How about we get you settled on the bed?"

Sandburg glanced around the room curiously at everyone, his expression turning apprehensive. He swallowed hard and shook his head.

"Don't treat me like a child, Jim," he said, his voice low. "I'm not made of glass, man. You don't need to watch out for me."

The hurt he felt must have showed on his face, because Sandburg's eyes widened in distress and he reached out his hand, placing it on Jim's arm. The rush of comfort and caring that coursed through Jim eased the sting of the harsh words. He understood then, at the deepest level, Sandburg's need to show that he was strong.

"No problem, Chief. Just thought you might be tired." Jim kept his tone off-hand and he could feel Sandburg's gratitude.

"What's Nick got out in the truck?" Sara asked.

"Why don't we wait for him to get back?" Grissom responded, his lips quirking into a small smile. "In the meantime, let's talk about assignments. Mobley has assigned priority to this case; with the amount of press it's getting he had to. That means that unless a nuclear bomb goes off in downtown Las Vegas, we're working on this exclusively. I don't want anyone else at the Lab or in the PD involved without my personal approval."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Catherine asked with a frown.

"That means, no taking evidence to a tech for analysis without my say so. No requests for someone else to run reports for you or to bring you evidence, unless you've cleared it with me. And, it especially means no discussing the case or the evidence with anyone outside of those of us in this room and Jim Brass." Grissom's expression was serious. "Just remember that we're running an investigation within an investigation. We're not bringing in IA--at least not until we've made our findings. Then they can go to town, for all I care."

Catherine bit her bottom lip and looked at him worriedly. "Politics, Gil, remember? You're not going to shut Mobley out, are you?"

Grissom snorted. "What do you think?"

"I know you don't trust him, but--"

"I don't trust him," Grissom said flatly. "And not because I think he's involved, though I'm not discounting the possibility. What I don't trust is his ability to keep his mouth shut with the press."

"Or the Feds," Warrick muttered, a scowl on his face.

"Or the Feds," Grissom acknowledged. "So, when I say that we don't talk about the case to anyone, that's exactly what I mean."

The exchange was enlightening for Jim. They all deferred to Grissom, but they still felt free to voice their opinions or bring up possible pitfalls. They really did work as a team and, though Jim felt guilty for thinking it, they might be even more closely knit than Major Crime.

Jim cocked his head, hearing the elevator ding. He smiled reassuringly at Sandburg. It was only Nick with Brass in tow, nothing to be on alert about. Still, he glanced at the door several seconds before Nick used the cardkey to let them in, drawing a speculative glance from Grissom.

"Hey Gris. I ran into Brass down in the lobby, so I brought him up." Nick wheeled a small handcart of equipment, including a laptop case, over to a round table between the couch and the window.

"Are we all playing nicely?" Brass asked with a tired smile. "How far did you get?" He asked Grissom.

"I was just laying down the rules about the investigation." Grissom shrugged.

"The _thou shalt nots_, huh?" A corner of Brass's mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Starting with thou shalt not spill the beans to anyone?"

"Ending up with it, actually, but yes."

"What about Nick?" Sara asked. "You'd better let him in on our little conspiracy."

"That's okay, Sara," Nick said without glancing up from the laptop. "I've already had the lecture."

Sara's scowl came and went quickly. Another piece of the Sara puzzle, one that was growing more clear the longer they were all together. The more Jim observed, the less animosity he felt toward her and the more he began to pity her. It was hell wanting something so badly and being constantly shown that you weren't to have it.

"Of course," she said quickly. "You rode over here together."

"Uh, yeah." Nick glanced at Grissom, his expression confused.

Jim raised an eyebrow. The chink in an otherwise smoothly running team. Sara was either terrible at hiding her jealousy or Jim simply recognized it for what it was from personal experience. Probably a little bit of both. And if he could see it, the people closest to her could surely do the same. The real problem was that she didn't seem to be aware of it. The potential for a disaster was staring them all in the face and none of them seemed to realize it.

Or maybe he was just more aware of those kinds of things these days after what had happened because of his own reactions to the stresses of dealing with the combined realities of Sandburg's dissertation and Alex Barnes. He still couldn't think of that time with any kind of clarity and he was pretty sure he'd never be able to do so.

He shuddered slightly and smiled as he felt Sandburg's hand tighten imperceptibly on his arm. Whatever this was that was happening between them, he didn't want to screw it up. It was far too important to him. Again Sandburg squeezed his arm, but this time he removed his hand. Jim glanced down at him and was warmed by the concern in his eyes. He let his gaze linger for a moment before turning back to the others.

Grissom was once again observing him closely, but Jim was getting used to that. There didn't seem to be anything malevolent about his regard; it was just...scientific. With a slight jolt he realized that Grissom's observation felt a lot like the way it felt to be observed by Sandburg, minus the more personal feelings.

"Nicky will be staying here and working on a part of the evidence that I'm not ready for anyone else to know about." Grissom glanced at each of them, his expression serious. "All of the computer equipment was missing from the MedLab. Or so we thought."

Warrick leaned forward. "So we thought? You found something?" He glanced at Catherine. "How'd we miss a computer?"

Catherine shook her head in confusion. "Beats me."

"You didn't miss it, because it wasn't there to find. It was at Mike Hollings's house. And it wasn't a computer, just a hard drive. Nick and I found it during our search."

Warrick frowned. "How do you know that it was from the MedLab?"

"We don't for sure. Not until we see what's on it. But the property tag makes it a pretty good bet." Grissom gave them a lopsided grin. "Show them, Nick."

Nick lifted the bare computer disk and turned it over so that they could all see the tag affixed to the case stating that it was the property of MedLab Services. He unfolded an anti-static pad and placed the drive on it gently.

"So, Nick's going to read whatever files are on that disk. And while he's doing that, we're going to do what?" Catherine asked, her eyebrows raised.

"Warrick, I want you and Sara to go back to the building. I know you were both part of the team that went over it already. You all were given part of the building to cover, right?"

"Yeah."

"That's not what I want you to do this time. I want the two of you to go through the entire building. Get the kind of feeling for what was going on there that you can't get when you're stuck in just one room or on one floor." He speared them both with a pointed glance. "I want you to call it. Multiple theories if you need to. But I want to hear some serious ideas about what was going on there and what happened to leave it the way we found it."

Warrick nodded slowly. "Okay. We can do that. Sara and I, man, we're on it. Right, Sara?"

"Right." Her smug smile made her look like a cat who'd just fallen into a vat of cream.

"And me?" Catherine asked. Her tone was light, but there was an underlying stress in it.

"You," Grissom said with a small quirk of his lips, "get to work with me."

"Yippee. Doing what?"

"We're going to work on those blood samples." His expression was suddenly bland.

"Uh-huh." Catherine snorted. "You just want me to run interference with Greg."

"No. I want your expertise, too."

"What about us?" Simon asked. "You're not going to shut us out now, are you?"

Grissom shook his head. "I don't think we could even if we wanted to. Trust me when I say that we don't want to do that. Nick's going to be working from here on the computer stuff. I don't want anyone at the Lab to know what he's working on. And while he's here, I'd like you to see if there's anything more that Blair can remember. I'm not asking you to force his memories, but it's crucial to find out as much as we can about what happened there."

"In the meantime," Brass added and raised an eyebrow, "I'll be running interference with the Sheriff and coordinating interviews with workers in the neighboring buildings. Lucky me."

"We'd better get out of here, before someone at the Lab wonders where we all are." Grissom looked pointedly at Nick. "Call my cell when you've got something to report. Same goes for the rest of you."

"You got it." Warrick rose to his feet and gestured for Sara to join him.

"I'm driving." She grinned when he just sighed and tossed her the keys.

Jim cocked his head and smiled slightly as he listened to their bickering as they headed down the hall to the elevator. The two of them sounded a little like he and Sandburg. The bickering was good-natured and held enough heat that it was puzzling why they both didn't see the natural attraction they had for each other.

"We'd better get going, too. Shall we?" Grissom asked Catherine.

"Yep." Catherine hesitated for a moment and asked, "You don't really think that Greg's involved in this, do you?"

Grissom looked grave as he shook his head. "No. Not really. But I think he's in a pretty damn vulnerable position."

"Because of his DNA expertise?"

"Yeah. I wish I could be one hundred percent certain of him. Still, I don't want to believe he's directly involved."

She looked distinctly unhappy. "Well, I don't believe it at all. Greg can be a flake, but never about something like this. And he cares."

"I agree with Catherine." Nick frowned. "But you know, Greg's not the only DNA specialist at the Lab."

"Whoa." Brass held up his hands. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay? Follow the evidence. Isn't that what you're always saying, Gil? Well, first we need the evidence. So, Nicky, you see what you can get off that disk. Once we've got something more than speculation, then we'll talk."

Grissom nodded and glanced at Jim and Sandburg. "We'll leave you to get your rest. Nick? Call me."

"You got it, boss." Nick smiled and sketched a brief salute.

"Did Nick drive you over?" Brass asked as they walked to the door.

"Yeah." Catherine started to turn back and he put his hand on her arm.

"Leave the Tahoe with him. I'll drop you guys off at the Lab." Brass held the door and closed it behind them, leaving the suite feeling empty, as though some of the life had just been sucked out of it.

"Well." Simon stood and watched Nick work for a few moments. A yawn seemed to catch him by surprise. "I guess I'll head off to bed, then. If you need anything, just knock on my door. Help yourself to whatever you want from the mini-bar. Keep my cardkey in case you need to go out for something--just leave a note to let us know what's happening." He tossed the cardkey onto the table.

Nick nodded. "Thanks. I'll try to be quiet and not disturb you."

"Son, I doubt that I'd hear it if you decided to throw a party out here tonight." He glanced at Jim ruefully. "I think I'm getting too old for this."

Jim smiled. "Not you, Simon."

He snorted. "I am. And so are you. You're just too damn stubborn to admit it." His concerned gaze flicked to Sandburg and then back to Jim in an unspoken command to take care of him. "I'm going to bed." He acknowledged their chorused good nights with a backward wave of his hand.

Jim exchanged a glance with Nick and cleared his throat. "Come on, Chief. Simon's right. I'm bushed. Let's hit the hay."

He frowned slightly when Sandburg nodded without putting up any fuss. It was yet another sign of just how much his ordeal had taken out of him. Normally he functioned on only a few hours of sleep, seeming to think nothing of staying up almost all night and then getting up early to go into the Station with Jim.

Jim didn't echo Simon's statement for Nick to knock if he needed something. Let him bug Simon in that case; Sandburg needed the sleep. Uninterrupted sleep sounded like heaven to Jim. His body was suddenly reminding him of several weeks of poor sleep as well as the last few days when he'd gotten almost none.

He nudged Sandburg and they levered each other off the couch, though it was a tossup as to who was doing the pushing and who the pulling. Jim placed his hands on Sandburg's shoulders and maneuvered him around the various obstacles in the path to their bedroom. He smiled good night over his shoulder at Nick and then closed the door firmly behind them.

The bedroom was dim, the only light coming from the glow of the Strip seeping around the edges of the thick, dark draperies. Jim's eyes adjusted automatically to compensate. The relief of having his senses work properly without having to concentrate on them was potent and he lightly squeezed Sandburg's shoulders.

"I got you some toiletries," Jim said softly. "Yours is the blue kit on the bathroom counter."

"Thanks, man. Guess I'll go brush my teeth." Sandburg blinked. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just..." He glanced up at Jim and his eyes were suspiciously damp, but there was no hint of tears in his voice. "I can't even remember the last time I brushed my teeth. I mean, I had to have brushed my teeth since I left New Mexico, right? But...I can't remember doing it."

"It's going to be all right, Chief."

Sandburg gave a single jerky nod and closed the bathroom door behind him. Jim stood in the middle of the bedroom, looking around him helplessly. What was he supposed to say to Sandburg to make it better? There should be something he could say, something he could do that would put it all to right again.

A slight sound came from behind the bathroom door and his senses were suddenly focused on Sandburg as easily as if he were standing right next to him. The uncomfortable feeling of invading the kid's privacy vanished as Jim took in the strangled sound of soft sobs. He froze, an agony of indecision burning through his brain. Should he pretend that he hadn't heard the sobs, or should he admit to his violation and rush to comfort his friend? His decision was made for him when the soft sounds stopped, replaced by running water. He shoulders slumped.

A few minutes later, Sandburg came out of the bathroom. If his eyes were a bit red and he didn't quite meet Jim's gaze, Jim didn't comment on it. He just reached out and patted one shoulder as he walked past on his way to the bathroom for his own evening ablutions. From behind the closed door he heard the rustle of cloth as Sandburg stripped and climbed into the bed, pulling up the blankets.

Sandburg appeared fast asleep by the time Jim finished in the bathroom. He'd chosen the side of the bed nearest the wall, leaving the side closest to the bathroom for Jim. He was curled up on his side, facing away, and all that was visible was the back of his head. Sandburg's breathing was even and if it weren't for the fact that his heart was racing, Jim would have thought he was asleep.

Unsure of how he should play this, Jim stripped to his boxers and tee shirt and slid under the covers, being careful not to crowd him. The bed was large enough for the both of them to sleep comfortably without ever coming in contact. For a split second a picture of him curled around Sandburg, warm and content, flashed before his eyes and he blinked it away. With a soft sigh, he rolled over and faced away from his partner, trying hard not to yearn for a warmth and comfort he'd never had.


	32. Chapter 32

__

_The rich greens and browns of the jungle slowly blended and faded into a deep blue. Jim looked around in apprehension, afraid he would find he was back in that warped space where the sterility of the medical laboratory was before him while the jungle remained behind._

_Not this time. The blue jungle completely surrounded him and he walked through it without fear. He glanced down at himself, relieved that his limbs were human. The stillness and silence were smothering. Why was he here?_

_A low whimper came from the underbrush a few yards away. He stopped and cocked his head. Another whimper. He slipped from the path, silently following the sound._

_The wolf lay in a tiny clearing, curled in a shivering ball. A small whimper escaped it as it tried to bury its muzzle under its paws. He regarded it gravely. It was thinner than he remembered from before, but it didn't look obviously sick or physically hurt. There was something about it, though, that spoke of more than a passing acquaintance with pain._

_He waited for the wolf to morph and become Sandburg. In his other visions, it had only taken moments from when he'd noticed the wolf for the change to occur. The longer he waited, the more uneasy he became. Why wasn't it changing?_

_He glanced around, hoping to find a clue to explain what was happening, what was expected of him. There was only silence, broken by the occasional whimper from the wolf. Surely by now the Chopec Shaman or his Ranger twin should have shown up with some pithy riddle that he wouldn't be able to decipher, but that would allow things to move along. But there was nothing and no one. Not even the jaguar was showing its whiskers. He was alone with the wolf._

_He knelt and waited until the wolf raised its gaze to his. Fear and longing shown in its eyes. Damned if he was going to hang around doing nothing while the creature was in torment. Cautiously he reached out his hand until he touched the soft fur of its neck. He swallowed hard at the shock of emotions that slammed into him. Fear. Longing. Joy. Pain. Want. Need. Love._

_He closed his eyes and clasped his arms around the wolf, gripping tightly and moaning deep in his throat as his own emotions surged upward and mingled with those of the wolf. Not alone. Never alone. Never again. The body he clasped shifted and stretched and the soft fur smoothed into warm skin as the jungle faded from his consciousness._

 

 

 

Jim fought against waking, reluctant to relinquish the warmth and peace he'd found. The room was dark and the bed comfortable. More than comfortable, considering the warm body he was currently wrapped around. He buried his nose deeper in the soft hair beneath his cheek and found his way to the curve of neck and shoulder. He breathed deeply and nearly drowsed back to sleep in contentment when his brain caught up with his senses and his eyes flew open.

Sandburg. He tensed slightly and started to pull away, but a faint whimper of protest halted him. Hesitantly, he relaxed until he was curled comfortably around Sandburg again and tried to decide what he should do.

Sandburg sighed and relaxed back against him. As Jim hesitated, his senses took control of the situation. He was suddenly aware of the man he held as he'd never really been aware of him before. The warmth, the vitality of him, was undiminished in sleep. It felt right having him in his arms, as though this was where he'd always belonged.

The scent of Sandburg's body, warmed from sleep and contact with Jim, filled him. The catch and curl of the hair on his chest as it rubbed against Jim's arms was a sensuous delight. The sight of his shoulder curving bare above the blanket, made Jim's mouth go dry with the desire to taste the flesh that shown pale in the thin thread of light that wound through the room. His entire body flushed with his desire.

He made a frantic effort to will the tangible results of his desire away, but his erection had ideas of its own. Before he could take a deep breath, his cock was nestled in the warm curve of Sandburg's ass. His body obviously thought that was a wonderful place to be, but he wasn't willing to be led around by his cock, no matter how good it felt. Not to mention the horrifying prospect of having Sandburg wake up and demand to know what he thought he was doing. His thoughts ran wild and he had to clamp down on the urge to laugh hysterically as he pictured himself trying to explain that it was seduction he was after, not rape.

The thought of rape sobered him immediately, though it did little to quell his wayward erection. He had to get out of that bed. And he had to do it without waking Sandburg. This time he forced himself not to tense up and slowly eased back until they were no longer touching. Jim slid out of bed and stood there, shaking and breathing hard. He watched Sandburg carefully for a long moment to make sure that he wasn't about to wake up before hotfooting it for the bathroom.

Once inside the relative safety of the porcelain and tile sanctuary, he slid down the wall and sat on his butt with his knees drawn up. He dropped his head into his hand. There was no hiding from it any longer. It was pretty damn obvious what he wanted from Sandburg and no amount of denial or repression or running away was going to change the situation. Hell, if he were completely honest with himself, he'd admit that he'd known the truth for a long time.

He loved Blair. More than that, he was in love with Blair. An important distinction, to be sure. And not exactly a surprise. After tonight, he had to admit to himself that he desired Blair as well. He lifted his head and stared sightlessly at the bathroom door. What was he supposed to do now?

The question brought the blue jungle vision vividly to mind. He'd wanted someone to tell him what he was supposed to do in his dream as well. Only when he'd reached out to the wolf had it morphed into Sandburg. Was that the answer? Reach out to the kid, instead of pushing him away as he'd tended to do lately?

His breath caught. His feelings for Sandburg ran so deep he wasn't sure he could take the chance. If it was the wrong thing to do, if he ended up driving Sandburg away, he didn't know if he could live with the consequences. And yet...if it was the right thing to do, if by some miracle Sandburg returned his love, then he would have gained the most amazing gift of all. Didn't they say that fortune favors the bold? It might be easier to believe if he didn't have a lifetime's worth of personal failures behind him when it came to important relationships.

Still, hadn't he come to Las Vegas searching for Sandburg with just this in mind? He hadn't thought it through to this particular conclusion, that's true. At least not consciously. But he'd obviously already known how he really felt. He'd just needed his body to shock his mind into admitting it.

So, maybe there really wasn't a choice to be made between telling Sandburg and not telling him. Maybe the only choice was when and how to bring it up. That was something he'd have to consider carefully. He'd always had lousy timing when it came to these kinds of things; all anyone who doubted it had to do was ask Caroline.

Feeling better now that he'd made up his mind, he pushed himself off the floor and turned on the faucet in one of the dual sinks. A few handfuls of cold water splashed on his face and he felt ready to deal with getting back into bed with Sandburg. A flutter of warmth curled in his belly. _Down boy_, he thought with a smile. _Maybe someday you'll get your chance--just not tonight._ The flutters subsided.

His mind was clear and free from confusion. It was the same way he felt when he discovered a crucial piece of evidence on a case; he was on the right track and it was only a matter of time. With quiet satisfaction, he slipped back under the covers and rolled to his side facing away from Sandburg. Before he knew it, he'd relaxed back into sleep.


	33. Chapter 33

Grissom swiveled his chair and leaned back, staring at the far wall of his office. The lights were dim and the room quiet. This was the part of his job that he usually loved--solving the puzzle. The trick was knowing when you had enough pieces to be able to determine the shape of the ones that were missing. All he had to do was find the key to putting what they had together in the right order and hope they had enough of what they needed for the pattern to be visible.

The blood analyses of the victims, including the original cases, were spread out on his desk. He didn't need to look at them; he'd already been through them half a dozen times. On the surface, the reports were exactly what he'd expect. But there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on, something off about them. Every time he tried to focus on what that elusive something was, it slipped through his fingers.

Part of what disturbed him was that all of the reports had been done by Greg. He'd been honest with Catherine when he'd told her that he didn't believe Greg was involved, but now he wasn't quite so sure. That uncertainty was at war with his sense of loyalty, which told him that Greg wasn't capable of being connected with something so heinous.

He glanced at the top of his desk out of the corner of his eye and sighed. Distance and separation from the job and the people who worked it was always something he'd thought to observe. They were concepts and ideals that were as much a part of him as the curiosity that drove him to solve the next crime, the next puzzle. Somehow, over the last few years, that distance had become downright impossible to maintain, especially with his crew. Suspecting Greg, hell, suspecting any of them of participating in a crime such as this, made his stomach churn.

A knock broke his depressed train of thought. Catherine stood framed by the doorway, a small smile on her face and a knowing look in her eye. He smiled briefly, acknowledging that she, of all people, probably knew exactly what he'd been thinking.

"Hey, you." She stepped forward and Grissom could see Greg hovering nervously behind her. "I have something I think you'd like to hear." She gestured for Greg to come into the office and shut the door behind him.

"Yeah?" Grissom turned his chair forward and leaned his forearms on his desk. "What've you got?"

"Sit down, Greg." Catherine nudged him towards one of the chairs and perched on the other. "We've been having a little chat. Friend to friend, like."

"And?"

She glanced at the papers on his desk and raised her eyebrows. "I see you have the reports on the blood work from the MedLab case. The previous ODs, too?"

"Of course." He recognized the twinkle in her eye, the one that told him that pushing her to get to the point was useless. She'd get there in her own good time and in her own way.

"And I bet all of them were signed off by Greg, right?"

"Right."

"So, in each case, a CSI brought in the samples and had Greg perform the analysis?"

"That's the procedure. You know it as well as I do." Now he was going to push. In fact, she probably expected him to. "And your point is?"

"My point," she said with a quick glance at Greg, "is that they weren't supposed to be done by Greg. Not all of them. Not originally."

"So?" He shook his head slowly, trying to filter what she wasn't saying from what she was.

"So, all of the blood samples didn't go directly from a CSI to Greg."

"What?" He frowned. "Where did they come from then?"

She turned to Greg and smiled reassuringly. "Greg? You want to tell him?"

"Well," Greg said, "I was just trying to help him out. I mean, I know it's not exactly protocol, but the chain of evidence was preserved. If it ever came into question, that is..." He swallowed nervously.

"Help who out? Greg? Who are you talking about?"

"Allan Richeson. The day shift guy?" He glanced at Catherine. "It isn't like it happens all the time or anything. He just said he was swamped and could I help him out."

"Let me get this straight," Grissom said and frowned slightly. "Richeson came to you and asked you to run the tests on some of the blood samples he'd been assigned?"

"Well, yeah." Greg shrugged. "I ran the tests, so I signed the reports. We weren't trying to hide anything. I mean, if I'd run the tests and he'd signed them, then it would've been like we were trying to cover something up. It wasn't like that at all."

"It's okay, Greg," Catherine reassured him.

"Technically, it's not." Grissom shook his head. "You should've let the CSIs involved know what was going on, but we'll leave that as something you'll remember for the future."

Greg nodded.

"The important thing is, which of these," he tapped the reports, "are ones that Richeson asked you to do?"

"Most of the vics from the MedLab." Greg walked around the desk to stare at the reports. "Um, this one, this one and all of those."

Grissom scooped them off the desk and held them out to Catherine. She flipped through them and then glanced up at him, her expression smug. He nodded at her, silently agreeing with her assessment. Sometimes, he thought, there was a real bonus in knowing someone as well as he knew Catherine and as well as she knew him.

Greg had been avidly watching their silent communication and was nearly beside himself with curiosity. "What? What is it? Did you find something?"

Grissom waved him back into his seat and grinned. "Greg, my boy, I do believe that we did find something. How would you like to do a little work for me? In confidence."

"A secret?" His eyebrows raised.

"Yes, a secret. I need you to obtain blood samples from each of these victims. And I mean obtain directly. You can't let anyone know that you're doing this."

Greg's expression turned serious. "You mean I'm not supposed to tell Allan."

Grissom shook his head. "No. I mean that outside of Catherine and me, you're the only one who's to know what you're doing."

His eyes went wide and he nodded slowly. "Okay. I can do that."

"Good. I want standard tests run on the new samples and then I want you to run the extra tests that you ran on Sandburg's blood for Nick."

"All right." He rose to his feet and asked, "Anything else?"

"Nope. Just get the samples, run the tests and bring them directly to me. Oh, and don't tell anyone." One corner of his mouth curled up in a wry smile.

"You got it." He glanced gravely at Catherine and turned and left the office.

As the door closed behind him, Catherine raised her eyebrows. "Secret work? Piling it on a bit thick, weren't you?"

He shrugged. "I just wanted to make sure he knew not to say a word to anyone. I really don't want to tip our hand right now."

"All right. But don't blame me if he suddenly starts wearing a trench coat and Fedora to the Lab." She reached for the glass paperweight on his desk and turned it around and around. "So, you think it's Richeson?"

"Don't you?"

"What if he's not the only one involved?"

"Believe me, that thought has crossed my mind more than once."

"That's why you didn't want Greg to talk to anybody, isn't it?"

"You know, I hate thinking about any of this. If there has to be someone at the Lab involved, I really hope it's limited to just one person. But do I think we'll be that lucky?" He shook his head and sighed. "No. I don't."

"Yeah." For a brief moment, she looked tired and far older than her years. Then her normal exuberance reasserted itself and she grinned. "But I'd rather get rid of the bad apples now, than wonder later who we can trust when we hand over evidence for processing."

Grissom nodded. "I know what you mean."

She grinned. "Think I'll go see if Greg needs some help getting those blood samples. I don't think he's had much direct experience."

He chuckled as she slipped out, letting the door swing shut behind her.

 

 

 

Nick leaned back in his chair and sighed softly. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to get assigned this task, since he had less computer experience than Sara. She should be here instead and he should be going over the crime scene with Warrick. Hell, Sara'd probably already have this puppy cracked by now, he thought glumly.

He glanced around the room and the answer was obvious. Sandburg and Ellison. Ellison had definitely been tense around Sara, especially when Sandburg had reacted negatively to her. Nick didn't think that the others had even noticed it, but Grissom sure had. And Grissom had seen that he'd noted it as well. Besides, Ellison still held a fascination for Grissom and it was clear that Sara hadn't seen that.

With a shake of his head, Nick turned back to the laptop. So far, he'd managed to get the hard disk recognized by the system. Now he had to see if he could get the system to read any files off of it. He sent a small prayer to whatever deity looked after the computer clumsy that the disk wasn't encrypted and started his search program running. The problem with giving him this particular job was that if the disk wasn't easily cracked he'd have to call in someone with more expertise. Given the sensitive nature of what they were doing, that might prove to be problematic.

The mini-bar was calling his name. The search program would take a few minutes at a minimum and he could do with a break. One thing you could say for the Grand, they definitely stocked their suites. Nick pulled out a coke and a bag of chips. Crunching on the salty snack, he stood behind his chair and stared down at the laptop, watching the results of the program scroll across the screen.

So far, so good. Nothing appeared to be encrypted. He munched on his chips and sipped his soda and hoped that his luck would hold. His thoughts turned to the men in the other room--the bedroom--and he wondered about them. There was definitely a connection between Ellison and Sandburg, something significant that seemed to defy his attempts to define it. Beyond friendship? Beyond love, maybe? He shook his head at his flight of fancy. Whatever it was between them, it was private.

A low chime from the laptop indicated that the program was done. He was in luck, no files were flagged as being encrypted. He pulled out the chair and sat down, rubbing his palms together. Now all he had to do was go through the data and see what he could find, if anything.

A couple of hours and two bleary eyes later, he found what he was looking for, or at least part of it. He quickly scanned the file and a department name that he recognized leapt off the screen, making him sit up straight. He scrolled to the top and read more slowly, his stomach twisting at the details. No specific names, just abbreviations of the names of departments within the Lab and the PD. The contacts were referred to by the department they worked in. And the department that came up most frequently was Trace. God, Grissom was right. They were in so much trouble.


	34. Chapter 34

Brightness stabbed his eyelids and he turned his head into the pillow, dragging the sheet up in an effort to block it out. He was warm and comfortable and drowsy, with no desire to climb from the last dregs of sleep. Still, his awareness expanded slowly, encompassing first the sheets, then the bed itself and finally the warm human lump pressed close to his back. Jim lowered the sheet and opened his eyes.

Sandburg. The feel of his body, the heat of his breath against the hollow between Jim's shoulder blades, made his insides turn to liquid fire. Sandburg's arm was thrown carelessly around his waist, fingers lightly brushing Jim's tee shirt just above his navel. He might as well have had his hand flat against Jim's stomach, skin to skin, for all it mattered; the heat from his fingers burned there just the same.

Jim swallowed past the sudden dryness in his mouth. He'd tried to give Sandburg space after he'd woken up wrapped around him earlier. Tried to make sure he didn't push for something that Sandburg wasn't ready for or didn't want. And what happened? Sandburg had sought him out like some kind of heat seeking missile.

Jim closed his eyes and allowed his senses to revel in the feel of him. Just for a moment. Something to tide him over. He let himself relish the contact, the warmth, the life, that resided within the man snuggled up behind him. His emotions ran high and he wondered if it were possible to zone on a feeling.

As if in a dream, Jim slowly turned in the loose embrace. He reached out, fingertips hovering over Sandburg's cheek, and extended his sense of touch until the faint body heat teased him. He ran his palm slowly down Sandburg's body, fascinated by the sensation of feeling, yet never directly touching him.

Finally, his hand hovered over Sandburg's blanket-covered hip and Jim stared as if mesmerized. A slight intake of breath made him raise his eyes to find Sandburg staring back at him, an unreadable expression on his face. What was he thinking?

The longing to touch was so great that Jim brought his hand up, intent on caressing that beloved face, when a soft knock at the door halted his motion. Another soft tap and then the clearing of a throat. Even though Simon's voice was pitched low, they could both hear his words when he spoke.

"Jim? If you're awake, you probably want to come out here. Nick's on to something."

Jim gazed at Sandburg for a long moment before sighing softly and rolling away, off the bed. He pulled his robe out of the small closet and shrugged into it. Halfway to the door, Sandburg's voice, full of disappointment, brought him up short.

"Tell Simon I'll be there in a few minutes."

He nodded without glancing back.

"Jim." Simon stood next to the table where Nick had set up his equipment.

"What've you got?" He glanced from Simon to Nick. "Did you find something?"

Nick nodded, his expression solemn. "Yeah. You could say that."

"Well?"

"I..." Nick cleared his throat and started over. "I really think I need to show this to Grissom first. He needs to know--"

"What is it that you don't want to tell us?" Jim interrupted.

"Look, it isn't that I don't want to tell you, it's just that I think it might be best to have this data analyzed before we all start jumping to conclusions."

"It's about whatever that stuff was that I was injected with, isn't it?" Sandburg's voice was quiet, taking them all by surprise.

Jim turned and gazed at him. He'd taken the time to pull on a pair of sweats, but his hair was sporting a serious case of bedhead. Jim wanted nothing more than to tell him to go back to bed, preferably with him, but there was no way that he was going to keep Sandburg out of this. Not when he was starting to show a bit more of his normal spark.

Nick sighed softly and nodded. "I think so. Can't be sure until a comparison is run between this," he gestured at the laptop screen, "and the contents of the syringe we found."

"But you suspect that what you found is the substance in the syringe." Sandburg folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head.

"I-- Look, I could be wrong, okay? I don't want to give you false information. It's not the way we do things, you know?" Nick said, his voice pleading.

Sandburg flashed him a small smile and said, "No one here will hold you to anything. We're used to flying by the seat of our pants, I guess you could say. But if there's something in there that can maybe tell us what was done to me and all those other people, then you've got to tell us."

"I appreciate that, but you don't know Grissom. I called him a few minutes before I woke Simon up. He should be calling back soon to let me know how he wants to handle this." Nick shrugged. "Sorry."

Sandburg shook his head. "Nah. You have to follow your protocol. I understand."

He walked over to the window and pulled back the blackout drapes, leaving the sheer underdrapes closed against the false light of dawn that touched the Strip below. Jim took a few steps towards him and could feel the confused mixture of fear and hope that emanated from him. Wanting to comfort, he stepped closer and reached out his hand, only to be brought up short when Sandburg sidled away.

"Don't." His eyes were wide and full of anguish. "Just don't, Jim."

"Don't what?"

"Don't touch me." Sandburg blinked rapidly and backed up a few steps, holding up his hands. "I...I just don't think that's a very good idea right now."

"I don't understand."

"You can feel it. I know you can." His mouth turned down and he glanced away. "I thought I was going crazy, but it's real. I can't handle any more than I'm already dealing with and if you touch me, I'll have to deal with your emotions, too." He inhaled sharply and gazed directly into Jim's eyes.

"It is you," Jim said softly. "Isn't it? All this emotion that I'm feeling?"

Sandburg nodded, looking miserable. "I think so. I don't understand it. How it could be happening. But every time you touch me, hell every time anyone touches me, I feel...more. Different. I admit I'm screwed up right now; that I'm not thinking straight. That's one of the reasons it's taken me so long to figure this out."

"I've been feeling it, feeling something anyway. And I think I've known all along that it was connected with you." Jim shrugged. "I tried to chalk it up to my emotions running high from getting you back."

Sandburg swallowed hard and blinked. "Yeah. There's that."

"Look, we think we know this is happening. But we can't be sure. I mean, not really."

"What are you suggesting?" Sandburg asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowed.

"Whatever this is, we're going to have to figure it out." He held his hands out, palm up. "And I'd rather do that without an audience. Especially an official audience."

Sandburg's gaze darted to Nick and Simon and then back to Jim. "You don't trust them?" he asked, his voice uncertain.

"It's not them that I don't trust. It's the ones who are sure to show up because of this case."

"The Feds."

"For starters. Depending on what's on that computer disk and what the Lab figures out about what was going on in that place, a lot worse than the FBI are likely to crawl out from under their rocks."

Sandburg shuddered and his eyes filled with despair. "God."

Jim took an involuntary step forward and stopped when Sandburg flinched back. "Chief," he said softly, his sorrow fighting with his need to comfort, "don't be afraid of me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Let me be here for you now."

He shuddered again, his breath ragged. "I'm so close to the edge, Jim. Too close. I'm..." He swallowed heavily. "I'm afraid if I let you in that I'll be lost. I don't understand what's happening and I don't know how to control it, or even if I can control it."

"Don't worry about that. We'll figure it out."

Sandburg shook his head. "No, you don't understand. You feel it, too. It's not just one way. What if I lose control and end up hurting you? I don't think I could stand that."

"I'm willing to take that risk, Chief. Let me help you." He held out his hand, not touching. Waiting. Hoping.

Sandburg's gaze dropped to Jim's hand and then slowly climbed back to his face. Jim could see fear and hope reflected back at him. Slowly that changed to determination and Sandburg stepped forward with his right hand extended until their palms touched. The jolts of emotion that coursed through Jim were incredible and by the look on Sandburg's face, he felt the same.

Jim gripped Sandburg's hand tightly and felt an answering squeeze. "See. Not so bad, huh?" He smiled slightly.

"No," Sandburg whispered, awe in his voice, "not so bad at all."

A sharp rap at the door drew their attention and they dropped their clasped hands in silent agreement. Simon opened the door and let in Grissom and the young man from the Lab who'd done some of the earlier blood work. Jim remembered his face, but couldn't recall his name.

"Griss?" Nick frowned. "I thought you were going to call me?"

"I was, but with what you described and what we've been finding, I thought I should bring Greg over to look at this first hand." Grissom nodded at the young man next to him. "Gentlemen, you remember Greg Sanders? Our DNA specialist?"

Simon nodded. "Of course. Good to see you again. Now that you're here, Nick will hopefully share what he's found." He glared at Nick, who seemed as immune to that particular expression as Sandburg. Jim shook his head and smiled to himself.

"Hey, Nick. Where is it?"

Nick stood and gestured for Greg to sit down in his chair. He grabbed the mouse and clicked several times while he peered over Greg's shoulder. "Here. Take a look at these. Just read through them in date order." He straightened and patted Greg's shoulder before moving away.

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "You want to let us in on what you found?"

Nick shook his head and smiled slightly. "Nope. Not now that Greg's here. I'd like to hear his opinion without him having heard what I think. I don't want to make any suggestions that might skew his impression."

Greg began to read and Jim monitored him with his senses. Suddenly Greg's heart rate tripled. He hadn't changed so much as his position in his seat, but there was a slight tension to his shoulders and that, coupled with the increased heart rate, told Jim that Greg had clearly found something that troubled him.

Jim let his vision expand, telescoping until the document on the laptop was sharp and clear. He nearly sighed in frustration. The words were meaningless to him. Something about a D2 gene and dopamine reuptake inhibitors and a bunch of other scientific gibberish that would have to be interpreted in order to be understood.

Greg slowly sat back in his chair and gazed at Nick. "This isn't saying what I think it's saying, is it?"

"You tell me." Nick raised his eyebrows.

"Greg?"

He turned to Grissom and shrugged. "According to this, they were trying to isolate and enhance the D2 gene."

"D2?" Simon asked with a frown. "What does that mean?"

"D2." Grissom cocked his head and stared off into space. "The so-called addiction gene?"

Greg nodded.

"Addiction?" Simon glanced at Jim.

"Start at the beginning." Grissom glanced from Greg to Nick.

"I came across some files," Nick said, gesturing at the laptop, "that all referred to something called The Project. When I found that folder and read through what was in it, well, I called you."

Jim crossed his arms over his chest. "So, clue us in. What was this project about?"

Nick hesitated and said, "Our theory was right. They, whoever they are, were doing experiments using human subjects. Unwilling human subjects." He glanced uncomfortably at Sandburg. "The object of the whole thing was to manipulate the D2 gene. It's a gene that's been linked by various researchers to addiction in humans. From what I've gathered so far, the idea was to figure out a way to be able to control how human beings react to addictive substances."

"What, you mean like trying to find a cure for addiction?"

Nick shook his head. "No. At least that's not the way I interpreted it."

"Nick's right. The way I read this, I'd have to say that what they were hoping to accomplish was a way to make people more susceptible to addiction."

Jim exchanged a horrified glance with Simon and approached the table to stare down at the laptop screen. "Go on," he said grimly.

Greg's eyes widened and he shifted in his chair, nervous at having Jim hanging over his shoulder. He glanced at Grissom, who nodded at him.

"Well, the first part of this is a discussion of approaches. It talks about what's been tried in the past, things like trying to enhance the addictive properties of existing drugs, like making a super heroin or a more concentrated form of nicotine, or creating new synthetic drugs that are highly addictive. It rejects those techniques as being flawed and expensive in the long run. It recommends taking a radical approach to the problem."

"And that is?" Grissom raised his eyebrows.

Greg swallowed hard and said, "Gene therapy."

"Jesus," Simon breathed, his expression shocked.

Jim glanced back at Sandburg and felt his heart lodge in his throat. Sandburg's face was pasty white and his arms were wrapped protectively around his torso. He looked shrunken in on himself, as if he were a balloon that had been pricked and was slowly running out of air. His posture was so wrong, so unlike the way Jim was used to seeing him, that an involuntary murmur of protest rose in his throat.

Sandburg stared at him, fear and need rolling off him in waves so strong Jim wondered why everyone else wasn't remarking on them. Jim reached out a hand, wanting to comfort, only to let it drop when Sandburg shook his head. He wanted to help, hell, he needed to help. Why wouldn't Sandburg let him?

"How?" Grissom's voice startled Jim and he turned around. An angry expression had settled on Grissom's face. "What exactly was their theory? What did they try to do?"

Greg clicked on a file and a colorful diagram opened on the screen, the various parts labeled with scientific notations. Jim didn't understand it, but he did recognize the small double-helix that was located in one corner. DNA. Gene therapy. His stomach rolled.

"They were messing with the D2 gene, like I said earlier. It appears that they tried and abandoned a few approaches before settling on attempting to use a retrovirus. I'm not clear, from this, what they hoped to achieve exactly."

"What do you mean?" Jim frowned.

"Well," Greg glanced at him, "see, one of things the D2 gene does is enable the pleasure centers of our brains to respond when bathed with dopamine. It's what puts the high in getting high, if you will. What I can't tell is what they hoped would happen. I mean, were they trying to make the high better? Longer lasting? More intense? This is pretty vague."

Nick nodded. "That's what I thought. But, in a way, it fits with the general fact that they were willing to perform these experiments on human beings in the first place. I mean, why worry about exactly how it works, so long as it does work?"

"I suppose." Grissom frowned. "Sloppy science, though."

"Yeah, but Griss, these people weren't looking to cure cancer. They were looking to make something that could potentially bring misery to millions of people."

"And look at the method that they settled on."

"Gene therapy?" Simon shot a sideways glance at Sandburg. "What about it?"

"Not just gene therapy, but using this kind of retrovirus in the first place to achieve such a nebulous goal." Nick shook his head. "That's a scattergun approach as it is."

"Scattergun?" Jim asked.

"Well, sort of," Greg said. "There've been some good results using retrovirus gene therapy in treating some severe immunodeficiency disorders, but there have also been unintended, dangerous side effects in some patients, such as the development of leukemia because a gene that wasn't targeted for the therapy was modified. With this type of gene therapy you can't absolutely control where the vector inserts itself into the genome. You take a calculated risk and still end up hoping it hits the right place."

Simon shook his head. "Mind translating that for the non-scientists among us?"

"It means that they might have been trying to affect this D2 gene, but their method had the potential to change other genes as well and there was no way for them to control it." Sandburg's voice was soft.

"So..." Simon's voice trailed off as he stared at him.

Sandburg ignored him and glanced at Nick. "Was there anything in there about their subjects?"

Subjects. What he really meant was, was there a report on that damn disk that described what they did to _him._ Jim closed his eyes in pain. Not for the last time, he wished they were all back in Cascade where they belonged and that none of this had happened. He sighed softly and opened his eyes. No sense wishing for the impossible.

"Each subject was given a code name. I haven't finished the mapping of code name to, um, subject yet."

"Have you found mine?" Sandburg stepped forward slowly, still keeping out of Jim's reach.

Nick nodded slowly. "I've identified it. I haven't had the chance to read it yet." He glanced worriedly at Grissom.

"Blair." Grissom's voice was oddly gentle and his eyes held a wealth of sympathy. "I'm sure you want to see it, but I don't think that would be a very good idea just now. Would you let us read it for you?"

Sandburg glanced at him uncertainly.

"I think that might be a good idea, Chief," Jim said, his voice low.

Sandburg's gaze swung from Grissom to Simon and settled on Jim. "Okay." His shoulders slumped and he swayed slightly. "I think I'll go lie down. You'll listen to what they say, won't you, Jim?"

Jim swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and nodded. He wanted nothing more than to go to Sandburg and put his arm around him, help him into the bedroom and stay with him. But he was frozen in place, unable to break his word, especially not this time. And so he worriedly watched Sandburg make his way to their bedroom, bent and shuffling like a man old before his time. When the door shut softly, he turned to Nick.

"Tell us." He was grateful when Simon shifted until they stood shoulder to shoulder.

Nick glanced down at Greg. "File arc25."

A double-click of the mouse and the file opened. Greg skimmed through it, scrolling rapidly at first and then more slowly, until he finally stopped. His heart rate shot up again and Jim heard a subvocal whimper that he doubted Greg was aware that he'd made. He steadfastly refused to enhance his vision to read what was on the screen. If it was scientific jargon, he'd have to have it explained and if it wasn't, well, he wasn't sure he wanted even second hand knowledge of exactly what they'd done to Sandburg.

"Greg? Want to share?" Grissom cocked his head.

"Well..." Greg let his voice trail off as he glanced at Jim and Simon. He cleared his throat and continued. "This appears to be a summary report. Not a day-to-day account. They seemed to find Mr. Sandburg, um, troubling."

"In what way?"

"He wasn't reacting to the retrovirus like the others. At first, they seemed to chock it up as a minor difference, but when he didn't show any signs of becoming addicted to the drugs they were giving him--"

"Hold it." Jim's eyes narrowed. "Back up there. What drugs?"

"Uh, well, apparently they were giving all of the subjects different drugs to test the effectiveness of the treatment." Greg glanced imploringly at Grissom.

"Just tell us what they were giving to Blair." Grissom raised his eyebrows.

"An opioid."

Jim glanced at Nick. "Like the oxycodone that was found in his blood work?"

Greg's eyes widened and he nodded. "Possibly. The doses they were giving him would have shown as a much higher concentration than what we found. Except that they stopped raising the amounts after awhile, since it didn't seem to be having any kind of addictive affect on him. Someone--this doesn't say who--decided that he was much more interesting as a failure than to continue to try to force the treatment to succeed with him."

"So they stopped drugging him?" Jim frowned. "What about the other drugs that were present in his bloodstream when we found him?"

"Trace amounts only." Greg glanced back at the screen and scrolled the file up slightly. "He evidently suffered through tremendous pain each time they injected him with the retrovirus. And he seemed to be hearing and seeing things, experiencing hallucinations. I think they threw the oxycodone and the anti-psychotics at him in an attempt to control both of those reactions."

Simon shook his head. "Is there any indication in there as to what that retrovirus stuff actually did to him?"

Greg shook his head. "Not really. Reading between the lines, there's some major frustration at not being able to figure it out." He shivered. "Whoever's behind this is one sick puppy, though."

"No names?" Jim asked sharply. His hands flexed as he pictured closing them around the neck of the person responsible for putting Sandburg through hell.

Greg shook his head. "Not in the files I've looked at." He glanced at Nick.

"Not yet." Nick shook his head. "When I came across this stuff, I knew I needed to get confirmation of what I thought it was saying."

Grissom nodded. "It's important." He glanced at Jim and Simon. "We need to decide how to handle this information."

Simon frowned. "I don't understand."

Jim caught the expression in Grissom's eyes and felt his stomach turn over. "This is dangerous stuff. Imagine what someone with enough money or power might do with it."

"What could they do? I mean, sure it's potentially serious, but it isn't particularly well thought out research. Or even well executed." Greg frowned.

Grissom sighed. "You're thinking like a dedicated scientist who cares about the quality of his work. You take it for granted that other scientists are like you and that's a serious fallacy."

"How should I think?"

"Like an unscrupulous bastard that's only in it for the money," Jim said flatly.

Grissom nodded. "You don't care that your methods are brutal. Nor do you care who gets hurt, so long as it isn't you. People are tools to be used, nothing more, nothing less."

"I see what you mean. I still don't get the research itself, though. I mean, what were they really trying to achieve?"

Simon crossed his arms. "I may not be a scientist, but I bet I can answer that one. If you could find a way to manipulate the fact of addiction, how easily or not a person can be addicted, don't you think that there'd be plenty of drug dealers interested in that? I don't mean the small time dealers; I'm talking about the serious cartels.

Jim nodded. "Not only that, but I can think of a few repressive governments that might be interested in this kind of stuff, too."

"Not to mention some of the shadier of our own government organizations." Simon grimaced.

Greg glanced down at the laptop screen and frowned. "Okay. I get that this is dangerous information. But you can't stop knowledge from getting out. I mean, if these guys thought of this, somebody else eventually will, too."

"Of course. But that doesn't meant that we have to make this particular information available to the world right now." Grissom shrugged.

"Wait a minute," Nick said, his voice incredulous. "This is evidence. As much as the thought of making this public turns my stomach, we don't have any choice in the matter."

"Don't we?" Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Right now, our team, Jim, Simon and Blair are the only ones who know anything about this computer disk. Those of us in this room are the only ones who know that you were able to get any information off of it. There's no reason that it can't stay that way. At least until we know for sure whether the information has to come out because failure to do so would jeopardize the case."

"Man, I just don't get it," Nick complained with a frown. "I thought that the evidence was everything with you."

"This is one time where the evidence is too big for the case." Grissom shook his head. "I'm not saying that we won't use it if we have to, but for now I think it's better if we keep quiet about it. Don't you?"

Nick nodded reluctantly. "I get your reasoning on this. It just feels wrong, you know?"

"Yeah. I know, Nick." Grissom sighed. "I do know."

"So, Boss-man, what do you want me to do?" Greg rubbed his hands on his thighs.

"We'll talk about that while I drive you back to the Lab." Grissom glanced at Simon. "This is all part of the preliminary investigation, but I still want to keep it quiet. The fewer people who know about it, the better."

That's all well and good, Jim thought, but it didn't help them much. "What about Sandburg? How are we supposed to know what that stuff might have done to him?"

"Nick'll keep looking for more information," Grissom replied, and then glanced at Nick and added, "At least he will once he's gone home and gotten some rest. I'm not asking you to pull a triple shift, Nicky. We need you looking for this information with a fresh mind."

"Yeah. Okay. Let me just shut this down and I'll walk out with you." Greg rose from the chair and Nick smoothly slipped into place, running his fingers over the keyboard.

Jim narrowed his eyes. He knew that the answers weren't there yet, but it didn't keep him from wanting to demand them. A little voice in his head told him not to be stupid, that he already knew the answer, but he pushed it away.

"Detective," Grissom said, his voice low, "you already have an idea about how the retrovirus may have affected your friend. Don't you." The last was a statement.

"Jim? Is that true?" Simon frowned and his eyes widened. "Not that stuff we talked about earlier?"

"Yeah. I guess it is. Blair's been exhibiting some very peculiar abilities ever since he woke up. I need to talk to him about it before I say anything more." He glanced at Simon and added, "He's afraid, Simon. I've never seen him this afraid before."

"Afraid? Of what?"

"Of himself. Of other people. Until we know what's going on, he's afraid to get near anyone." Jim shook his head. "Look, I really can't say any more until he and I work it out further, okay?"

Simon nodded slowly, a troubled look on his face. "I'll hold you to that, Jim. But don't leave me in the dark, here. I'm Sandburg's friend, too."

"I know." He spread his hands helplessly.

"Just remember," Grissom said seriously, "the more we know, the more we may be able to help."

"I'll remember that."


	35. Chapter 35

Jim sat in the chair in the corner of the bedroom and watched Sandburg sleep. The last shadows of daylight lengthened into dusk and still he waited patiently. Sandburg had slept most of the day through, thankfully without nightmares, only rising once at midday when hunger roused him and forced him out into the common room. Jim had noted the silent relief on his face when he saw that only Jim and Simon were there.

Very little had been said during the meal; both of them respecting Sandburg's withdrawn state, realizing that his thoughts were turned inward as he attempted to process what he'd been through. Still, Jim was aware of Simon's covert observation and knew he was trying to assess what else might be different about Sandburg. The only thing that was obvious, that Jim knew Simon could see, was Sandburg's avoidance of touching or getting too close to either of them.

By tacit agreement, they didn't discuss the case. Sandburg had avoided their eyes when he returned to the bedroom, mumbling that he was still tired. Simon turned a worried gaze on Jim, but didn't ask any questions. Just as well, since he sure as hell didn't have any answers.

After a couple of restless hours spent watching television and trying to keep his senses from automatically checking on his sleeping partner, Jim gave up pretending. He simply said that he was going to sit with Sandburg and let Simon interpret that as he would. He'd long passed the point where he cared what anyone thought, even Simon.

Now dusk had turned to night and the neon glow of the Strip infused the room with a rainbow of colors. Red, blue, green and yellow, diffused and softened by distance and filtered through the sheer draperies. They played across the bed and the sleeping form within, softening harsh realities. The colors took shape and form, blotting out the physical presence of the room. They lulled Jim, calling to him, bringing him to the edge of a zone that was tempting, so tempting...

A faint rustle of sheets snapped Jim's attention back to the bed. He took a shaky breath. What the hell had he been thinking? A soft moan broke through his recriminating thoughts and, without planning to move, he found himself next to the bed.

"Jim..." His name was whispered, pain and longing evident even in that soft tone. Sandburg shifted restlessly under the covers and a frown furrowed his brow.

"It's all right, Chief," he murmured.

Jim placed his hand lightly on Sandburg's head and stroked his fingers through the curly hair, trying to ease his restlessness. His fingers tingled from the contact. Confusion, fear and longing slowly grew within him. Sandburg calmed, settling onto the bed with a soft sigh. Jim untangled his hand from the curls and held it to his chest, his breathing shallow and strained. He turned to take up his watch from the chair, when Sandburg's low voice halted him.

"Jim?" He could hear the glide of cotton over skin as Sandburg eased the covers back and slid his legs over the side of the bed.

"Yeah."

"What're you doing, man?" His voice was uncertain.

"Just making sure you were all right, Chief."

Sandburg sighed softly. "Come on, Jim, look at me."

Jim turned and forced himself to appear calm. And then he wondered if that would make any difference at all. He wanted nothing more than to comfort and reassure, but didn't know if that would be welcomed.

"Jim..." Sandburg searched his face and turned away, his low voice softening his harsh words. "I don't need your pity, man."

He jerked as if struck and anger flared. "I know you've been through hell, Darwin, but don't you think that maybe so have Simon and I? And if I feel pity for you, well, that's not such a bad thing. Besides, did you ever stop to think that maybe pity isn't the only feeling that I have for you?"

Sandburg's face contorted in a grimace. "Oh, sure. What else? Pity. Sympathy. A little dash of feeling sorry for me thrown in for good measure."

"I think you're the one who's feeling sorry for himself."

"You don't know anything about it!" Sandburg shot back hotly.

"You're right. I don't." Jim spread his hands. "I can only imagine the horrors you experienced. But I've got a pretty damn good imagination and between it and my nightmares about you in that place, this hasn't been any picnic for me, either."

Sandburg turned away, his shoulders trembling. "I know it hasn't been easy for you. I know that. I just... I'm just so..."

"Scared?"

Sandburg glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide. "Yeah," he whispered. "How did you know?"

Jim shook his head slowly. "You're the one who wrote about my fear based responses remember? I guess I've gotten pretty good at recognizing them in you, too. I know you're afraid, Chief. You have every right to be. But, please, don't be afraid of me. Let me help you."

Sandburg slowly turned, the fear still clear in his eyes. "What if you can't? You know as well as I do that that stuff they shot in my veins has turned me into a freak. I already feel like I'm going crazy. What if I can't control it?"

They were finally getting to the heart of things, though Jim doubted that going crazy was really what had Sandburg so spooked. Scared, sure, but it wasn't something that would cause the kind of panic that he saw in the kid's eyes. He was close, though. All he had to do was push a little bit more.

"So you go crazy. Wouldn't be the end of the world. I know the thought of losing control is scary. Hell, I've been there and nearly taken you with me." He chuckled softly. "If it happens, we'll go there together. What do you say?"

Sandburg stared at him in shock. "I... No. Jim, you don't mean that."

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because that's not who you are. You don't give up." Jim smiled slightly and Sandburg swallowed. "Okay. I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Yep. Come on, Chief. I count on you to be quicker on your feet than that."

"Guess I'm out of practice." He raised his hands. "The problem's still there, man. No matter how much we don't talk about it."

Jim sobered. "I don't give a damn what that shit might've done to you, Blair. We'll deal with it together. And for the record?" He raised an eyebrow. "You're not a freak. Only one of those to a family."

"Hey. You're no freak! I keep telling you, your senses are a normal genetic variation." Sandburg blinked rapidly and his mouth hung open in a small 'oh' of surprise.

"Uh-huh." One corner of Jim's mouth quirked up. "Whatever this is, it may have been done to you, but it's still controlled by your genes. Doesn't that mean that it's possible that someone else may have developed this ability naturally?"

"I guess." He hesitated and said, "But we don't even know what it is, yet."

Jim cocked his head. "Earlier you didn't want me touching you. You said that you could feel my emotions."

"Yeah. I mean, I could still sort of feel stuff from everyone in the room, but it all felt kind of muted. Like their emotions were wrapped in cotton batting or something. But when you touched me it was like I was part of what you felt." He shivered. "It was pretty overwhelming."

"I've felt it, too."

"Yeah?"

"I felt like I was drowning in your emotions. I mean, I guessed they were yours, but I knew that what I was feeling came from outside of me."

Sandburg slowly walked to the window and looked out on the Strip. "What're we going to do?"

"First of all, we're not going to let anyone know about this," Jim said, his voice firm.

Sandburg snorted. "You don't think people won't be able to figure out that there's something seriously odd about me?"

"Maybe." Jim shrugged. "Let them think what they will. You've been through an ordeal. You have the right to act a bit odd. And if that includes not wanting to touch or be touched by anyone, well, the world can just deal with it."

"What if I can't deal with it?" Sandburg asked softly.

"Maybe we should run a few tests. See what the boundaries are and what we can tolerate."

"Tests?" Sandburg laughed a bit hysterically. "Guess I know how it feels now for you, huh? Turn about's fair play and all that."

"Chief." Jim waited until Sandburg met his gaze. "I'm not trying to get back at you or make you feel bad. As a matter of fact, I'm getting a better appreciation of the fact that your tests are designed to help me, not just thought up because you want to torture me. You know I'm right about this."

Reluctantly, Sandburg nodded. "All right. What do you think we should do?"

"Well, you said that things seemed overwhelming when we touched. Why don't we try that, then, and see how things go? It wasn't so bad when we did it earlier, right?"

"I guess that makes sense." Sandburg walked toward Jim, stopping when he was only a couple of feet away.

Jim held out his right hand and Sandburg took a couple of steps until he could just grasp it as if they were shaking hands. The contact was electrifying. Emotions rolled over Jim--fear, anger, hope, longing, lust, love--and he felt himself responding in kind. They both gasped, but neither broke contact. He stared into Sandburg's eyes and slowly felt all of the negative emotions ebb into a peaceful place, a deep pool of love and trust that he could dive into and never reach the bottom. He thought his heart might burst from the overwhelming feeling of it.

Finally Sandburg pulled his hand from Jim's grasp and stumbled backwards a few steps, panting for breath. His eyes were wild and he was shaking. He held up his hands when Jim started forward, as if asking for a moment.

Jim stopped and tried to wait patiently for Sandburg to get control. They'd been skirting the edges of this ever since he'd found him. Now there was no denying what was between them. And while it seemed to be a shock to Sandburg and something that he was going to have to learn to deal with, the revelation had only solidified Jim's own resolve. They _would_ have this thing, whatever it was, and nothing and no one would be able to come between them again. That thought alone brought a sense of smug satisfaction.

"Jim?" Sandburg's voice was nearly inaudible. "What...what was that?"

Jim shook his head. "You know what it was. What it is."

"Is it real?"

When Jim merely smiled, Sandburg straightened. He swallowed heavily and met Jim's gaze square on. The light that blazed out of his blue eyes made Jim's breath catch. He wasn't going to have to wait for Sandburg to figure it out after all.

Moving as if in a dream, wondering all the while if he had already dreamt this, Jim slowly approached Blair. He held up his right hand and smiled slightly when Blair mirrored his action with his left hand. He stepped closer and placed his palm against Blair's, lacing their fingers and ensuring that their hands were locked together in a strangely intimate embrace.

Jim raised his left hand and waited as Blair once again hesitantly mirrored his gesture. Again, Jim placed his open palm flat against Blair's and interlaced their fingers, closing the distance between them. The now familiar tingling raced up his arms and joy flowed through his body.

Palm to palm now, hands held out to the side, he stepped close enough that their chests just barely touched. Jim gazed down into his face and smiled shyly as Blair's eyes widened and he lifted his chin. Taking the gesture as acquiescence, Jim lowered his mouth to Blair's, moving gently and lightly over the warmth there.

Jim moved more boldly, darting his tongue in to tease and then pull back. Blair sighed softly, parting his lips slightly. It was all the invitation that Jim needed. He loosened his grip on Blair's hands and shifted to pull him in close with one arm around his waist and one hand cupping the back of his head, fingers tangling in the soft curls.

Blair moaned under the intensity of their kiss, the sound sending shivers down Jim's spine. This was where everything had been leading since the first day they'd met. This was what he wanted and this was who he wanted it with. Nothing and no one else would do for him after this. Jim opened his heart and his mind and let his passions be felt.

Emotions skirled like a light breeze through Jim's mind. Joy. Wonder. Awe. Love. They touched him gently, asking permission for more--permission that he gladly gave. Then Blair was there, with him, inside him, part of him, just as he was with, inside, part of Blair. The wave of their emotions crested and all that was left was a sort of rapture of knowing. Knowing he'd never be alone again, knowing that he was loved and cherished above all others, knowing that his place was in Blair's heart, just as Blair's place was within his own heart.

They moved as if in a choreographed dance towards the bed, removing their clothing without ever truly releasing one another. By the time their legs bumped the mattress, they were both naked, their overheated flesh seeking further contact as if unable to bear any separation.

Jim pivoted and fell backwards onto the bed, pulling Sandburg down on top of him. The sudden friction of skin against skin drew gasps and moans of pleasure from them both. Blair sought his mouth again, ferocious in his loving attention. He writhed atop Jim, as if trying to make contact with as much of him as he could.

And the emotions swirling within and between them deepened, ripening joy into exaltation, love into worship, wonder into reverence. His soul sang and was sung to. His body loved and was loved in return.

The room around them faded until they were once again in the forest--jaguar and wolf--staring across the distance at one another. Jim could still feel Blair, feel his strength and his passion, but he was also the jaguar, calling out from his soul for the wolf to return to him. The animals began to run, picking up speed as they raced to their completion. Jaguar and wolf leapt for one another and merged in a brilliant flash of light as the two men fell back into themselves, crying out softly in the rapture of their physical release.

 

 

 

When Jim woke later, he was amazed to find himself in bed, curled naked around a similarly naked Sandburg. Not a dream, then, but blessed reality. He smiled into the curly hair beneath his cheek and drifted back into a light slumber.

His sleep was short lived, however, when Simon knocked on the door and called his name. Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and poked his head in, only to gasp softly and pull the door shut behind him.

Jim breathed a deep sigh and opened his eyes. He didn't regret what had happened, but he hadn't quite planned on how, or even whether, to tell Simon. Now his hand was forced and he'd have to deal with the fallout. He hoped that Simon would be understanding, but ultimately it didn't matter. He knew where his heart lay.

"Jim?" Sandburg's voice was slurred with sleep, but he'd obviously felt some of Jim's more bleak emotions. Enough to bring him back to the land of the almost awake.

"It's okay Chief. Simon knocked on the door just now." He extended his hearing into the other room and said, "Nick's back."

"Oh." Sandburg yawned and rolled over until they were facing one another. The look in his eyes was inviting and the emotions Jim felt from him were warm, like a banked fire. He trailed his fingers down Jim's cheek, leaving behind tracks of tingling warmth where they passed.

"Blair," Jim breathed, and kissed him. It was a light, teasing kiss, promising more to come. "Got to get up now, Chief. Much as I'd rather stay in bed with you, I think we'd have a hard time explaining it."

"I guess." Sandburg rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "Did you say Simon knocked? I thought I heard the door open."

Jim reached for his pants. "You did. Simon kind of poked his head in for a moment."

"Damn." Sandburg sounded apprehensive. "Do you think he, you know, saw anything?"

"Would that bother you?"

Sandburg lowered his gaze until he met Jim's eyes. "No, man. Not for me, but I worry about what he might say to you. I don't want to be the cause of coming between your friendship." He sat up, wide-eyed. "Oh God, or what about your job?"

"First, I don't think Simon's that kind of fair weather friend. Nor do I think he's going to have a problem with us, as our friend anyway." Jim hoped he wasn't lying about that. "If there's any fallout about my job, well, we'll deal with it. You're my priority, Chief. Never forget it."

Sandburg swallowed heavily and nodded. "Okay."

"Now get your butt in gear and get dressed." Jim smiled to take the harshness out of his words. "I'll see you out there in a few minutes."


	36. Chapter 36

Blair sat on the edge of the bed and glanced around. A flush crept its way up his neck until he could feel the heat on his cheeks. His discarded boxers were on the floor halfway to the window and his tee shirt hung off the shade of the floor lamp.

This was a first for him. Never one to worry overmuch about other people's propensities, he'd always thought of himself as straight. Sure, he'd admired the occasional male body, but hadn't ever thought he'd be turned on by a man. Until Jim.

The last several months had been among the most confusing of his life as he'd come to understand that his feelings for his best friend had changed into something completely new and infinitely deeper than simple friendship. His thoughts and feelings had caused him to question his sense of self in ways he'd never had to contemplate before and he couldn't help but feel that his own doubts and insecurities had added to the problems that had occurred between the two of them.

He inhaled sharply. What if Jim had felt his doubts? What if that had contributed to Jim's lack of trust and confidence in him during the mess with Alex? At that familiar pain, Blair scrubbed his hands over his face. He really didn't want to go there, not now, maybe not ever again, but he'd file the thought away for another time.

So much time wasted, he thought sadly. If they could just have trusted, just have talked it out honestly, they could have come to this so much earlier. But then, maybe this was the only way that it could ever have happened between them after all. This ability that he seemed to have developed, whatever it ultimately turned out to be, certainly left no doubts as to the honesty of their feelings for one another. He couldn't help believing that it would end up being a double-edged sword at best, but at least for now they could both be secure in their mutual love, respect and trust.

Blair pushed himself off the bed and stood, waiting until his legs stopped shaking. The last thing he needed was to fall flat on his face. He grabbed his shorts and tee shirt and wadded them into a ball to stuff into one of the plastic laundry bags in the closet. Clean clothes were folded neatly in a top drawer of the dresser. He smiled at this evidence of Jim's resolve. He'd brought the clothes with him because he'd refused to contemplate the idea that he wouldn't find Blair.

He rubbed a hand over his stomach and grimaced at the way his hair pulled where it stuck to his body. The idea of facing everyone wasn't very attractive and he could definitely use a shower. He grabbed his clean clothes and dropped them on the long sink in the bathroom. The shower filled with plumes of steam and he sighed in relief when he stepped under the hot spray.

Blair took his time washing his body with the gel supplied by the hotel. He tilted his head and throughly wet his hair as he reached for the shampoo, smiling when his fingers closed around a familiar bottle. A whiff confirmed it and a quick glance at the shelf revealed the matching rinse. Not only had Jim brought Blair's clothes, he'd also brought his shampoo and conditioner. He'd been so out of it when he'd taken his first shower that he hadn't even noticed.

He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and blamed the stinging in his eyes on the hot water cascading over his face. He was not going to cry, damn it. He'd managed to get through this so far without completely breaking down and he wasn't going to let his control go now, when he needed a clear head.

He quickly finished washing his hair and shut off the shower. As he used one of the plush white towels to dry off, his thoughts turned reluctantly to what he was beginning to think of as his own personal freak show. He wasn't an expert in DNA or gene therapy by any means, but he'd read a bit. The last thing he remembered reading was something about a French clinical trial that had resulted in at least two of the subjects unexpectedly developing leukemia.

Was that what had happened to him? Had the retrovirus inserted the new material into the wrong gene, or however the stuff worked? He'd never had a hint of this kind of ability before, but, after what he'd shared with Jim, he certainly couldn't deny that he had it now.

As he slowly pulled on his jeans, he realized that he was stalling. No matter how he cut it, being around people was a problem for him. He hadn't known exactly how to tell Jim what he was experiencing. It was true that the emotions he felt were more intense when he was touched. But what he hadn't said was that even without being touched, sometimes the emotions were still overwhelming.

Several times already, he'd been caught in Jim's feelings when he'd had a strong reaction to something. And he'd had the same response to some of the others as well. Simon, he expected; he knew from experience that the man was passionate by nature. Nick's emotions seemed quick and mercurial, deep at times, but always honestly held. The emotions of the other CSIs hadn't really registered much, with the exception of Grissom. The man might show a calm and cool exterior to the world, but his internal landscape was another story.

It was weird how what he felt from other people was different, depending on the person, even when they were feeling the same emotion. It was like each person's emotions had a different texture or a different taste. Blair shook his head. Even when it came to something as outrageous sounding as experiencing other people's emotions, it seemed that he was bound and determined to express it in terms of the five senses. And yet, texture and taste both felt right when he tried to explain it to himself.

He pulled a long-sleeved henley on over his white tee and decided he'd stalled going out into the other room for long enough. With an unfeigned reluctance, he joined the others, earning a smile from Jim and a nod from Simon. Nick sat at the same table as before, the fan from the laptop whirring softly.

"Chief." Jim's voice was warm and welcoming, as was the wave of emotion that Blair felt encompass him.

He smiled as he stopped next to Jim, standing just close enough to feel the reassuring heat of his presence. "Hey, Jim. What's going on?"

Nick glanced up with a smile and Blair felt a blast of fierce anger that made him lean unconsciously against Jim in an attempt to counteract it. He could feel Jim's troubled gaze, but he kept his own focused on Nick.

"I've got two possibles on the name of the other person in the Crime Lab. The first one is Allan Richeson. He works Trace and he's the dayshift DNA expert. The second is Roger Camden, another day shift lab tech who has access to all of the crime scene records. Hollings didn't know for sure who it was, but he'd narrowed it down to these two." Nick stood up and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, moving to the far side of the room to make a call.

Blair glanced up at Jim and frowned. "Does that mean that they're closer to figuring out who did this?"

Jim hesitated for a moment and shrugged. "Maybe."

Blair could feel his mixed emotions and he wanted to sigh. Double-edged sword, indeed. "Come on, man. Give me honesty, Jim. I can take it. Besides, you're pretty much busted if you don't, you know?"

Jim smiled sardonically. "Yeah. Guess that's the downside of this thing, huh? Okay. Truth." He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Truth is, I wasn't trying to lie to you. Maybe is about as good as it gets right now."

Blair watched him intently. "Okay. But what do you think?"

Jim sighed and glanced away. "What I think is that we may never know who was really behind this. We might catch some of the small fry, like these two guys. But in the end, will we get the people who really called the shots? No. People like that have ways of protecting themselves from discovery." His lips pressed together in a thin line and Blair felt scorched by the mixed anger and regret that boiled from him.

"So what do we do?" Blair glanced up at Jim apprehensively. "What if they think I can identify them? Or what if they want me back for, uh, something?" He couldn't suppress a shiver.

Jim placed a warm hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, letting his reassurances flow into Blair without needing to say the words before dropping his hand and turning back to Simon and Nick. This ability of his seemed tailor made for Jim. Jim, who'd never been much of one for verbalizing what he felt, but who would rather show it, now had the perfect mechanism for communicating with him.

Blair narrowed his eyes and stared at him speculatively. Every decision that he'd made from the time he'd met Jim had gone in the man's favor. From choosing not to go to Borneo to deciding to come home after Sierra Verde. Sure, they'd had their share of arguments and disagreements, but ultimately they came out the stronger for them and, in the end, Jim's abilities were enhanced.

He shied away from directly thinking it and had to force himself to face head on thoughts he'd buried deep. What if this wasn't just a case of random bad luck? What if, somehow, he were meant to have gone through this ordeal? Perhaps in order to obtain the abilities he was only now starting to discover? Why? Because it would help Jim? Enhance his ability to communicate with the one person whom he needed over all others for his senses?

A chill raced down his spine and he shook his head to clear away such thoughts, pushing them back and locking them away in a safely hidden attic in his mind. He knew that he'd end up thinking this over eventually, but for now he was better off pretending that the thought hadn't occurred to him. For his own sake, as well as for Jim's. He hated the idea that his destiny might not be of his own making.

Nick closed his phone and crossed the room. "Grissom wanted to know if you'd mind coming down to the Lab? He'd like to talk you through what you remember again, no matter how little that might be. You need to give a statement pretty soon, anyway." He started shutting down the laptop and undoing the cables.

"That's it?" Simon raised his eyebrows. "What about the computer disk?"

Nick looked troubled. "Grissom and Brass are looking into the names I found. I've got everything off the disk that I'm likely to get and while it's provided some answers, the ones we were hoping to find just aren't on it. I'm supposed to keep it with me until we can decide what to do with it."

Jim folded his arms, that familiar stubborn look on his face, the one that told Blair he was about to witness Mr. Intimidation in action. "That's not good enough. What about Sandburg?"

"Grissom said--"

"We can't just leave it like this!"

Jim looked ready to explode and Nick looked like he was more than prepared to get his back up. Blair shook his head and stepped in between the two men. The backwash of anger from Jim was bad enough, but the added waves of anger and frustration coming off Nick made Blair sway slightly. The flavor of Jim's emotions changed abruptly into concern and he put a steadying hand under Blair's elbow.

"Thanks, man," Blair murmured. He glanced at Nick, now feeling confusion and a touch of envy replacing the previous negative emotions. "I'm sure that Grissom will tell us what he plans to do with the information on the disk, right Nick?"

Nick nodded, his expression somber. "Of course. He just didn't want me to leave it here in the room while we're at the Lab."

"See, man?" Blair glanced up at Jim pleadingly and placed his palm in the center of Jim's chest. Their silent communication was swift and decisive and Jim nodded. He clearly wasn't happy with the explanation, but he was making the effort to extend his trust simply because Blair asked him to.

"Okay," Blair said and glanced over his shoulder at Nick. "I guess we do this, then. I'm not sure that I'll be able to come up with any more than I already have, but I'll try."

Jim slid his arm around Blair's shoulder, turning him around, and squeezed gently. He lifted his gaze to Nick's and said, his voice firm, "I'll agree to this on one condition. If it gets to be too much for him, the questions stop and we come back to the hotel."

Nick nodded. "I'm sure that'll be fine." He smiled slightly. "It isn't an interrogation. He's the victim here."

Jim nodded. "Just make sure that you don't forget that."

The intense emotions in the room began to recede as the two men backed off from a confrontation. Blair had nearly been overwhelmed by the bombardment of those emotions, but the sudden absence was almost as devastating, leaving him feeling exhausted and confused. He could feel Jim clutching him tightly. If he wanted to get this over with, without more interference from Jim's protective instincts, he needed to get a grip on himself.

He took a slow deep breath, steadying himself against the mental and physical lethargy he felt. Aware that Jim was regarding him with a mixture of compassion and concern, he put everything he had into projecting an aura of competence. Blair could feel Jim's suspicion about his ability to handle the trip to the Lab, or more accurately, his ability to handle what might happen when they got there. He had to take control of the situation now, before it got out of hand.

"I need to ask a favor," he said gravely.

Nick raised his brows. "What's that?"

He hesitated and shot a sideways glance at Jim. "I'd like to avoid dealing with very many people. I...I just don't think I'll be able to handle that and I'd like to get this over with and not have to come back in. You know?"

Nick noded slowly. "I think we should be able to figure something out so that you can have some privacy."

"Thanks, man." Blair could feel Jim's tension ease at this reassurance and his death-grip loosened fractionally. "In that case, I'm ready."

 

 

 

The CSI Lab was nothing like Blair had imagined and for that he was relieved. He'd been expecting a cross between the Cascade PD's forensic department and a hospital and he wondered if his vague memories of where he'd been held as a kidnap victim were mixed up in that picture as well. The reality was something completely different; a state of the art, modern facility full of glass walls and steel frames.

True to his word, Nick quickly ushered them past the busy work areas into a comfortable conference room. Blair was impressed with the quiet that surrounded him; the room was well insulated. He'd been tense ever since they'd left the hotel room, but now he found himself beginning to relax. He still didn't think that he'd be able to contribute anything useful, but he knew that he had to try. And he had to come here to do it. Otherwise, if he couldn't make himself leave the hotel room, then they'd won, whoever they were, and he wasn't about to let that happen. He'd had too much taken from him already.

"I'll go get Grissom and we can get started." Nick paused at the door and added, "Shouldn't be too long."

Blair nodded and sank down onto one of the chairs, aware of both Jim and Simon standing behind him. Both of them had a tight lid on their emotions. Jim, out of deference to Blair, and Simon, because that was normal for him. He was able to let go a bit and try to prepare for the upcoming questioning. No matter how many times they tried to reassure him that it was only routine, he still couldn't help but be nervous.

The door opened and Grissom, Nick, Brass and Catherine entered the conference room. Blair cocked his head and wondered if he could control what he felt from them. Or if he could, at least, control how much he felt. It was an intriguing idea and once he'd thought it, it seemed to take hold until he had to try.

The problem was, how? So far, the emotions just washed over and through him; he hadn't had to do anything to make it happen. In fact, he'd been desperate to shut himself off from what he was feeling and that certainly didn't come naturally just from wanting it so. Maybe it wasn't something that could be controlled? He pushed down a thread of panic.

He had to believe that he could control this, that it wouldn't control him, or he'd end up going mad. He swallowed the bubble of hysteria that threatened. Maybe he and Jim could share the same room in the looney bin. He caught Jim's concerned look out of the corner of his eye and shook his head slightly to warn him off saying anything. The last thing he needed was to have Jim go all protective and hustle him out of there just because he was a little nervous.

Brass leaned against the wall next to the door. As the others took their seats around the oblong conference table, Blair drew a couple of deep breaths and concentrated on remaining calm. If he could figure out a way to identify when an emotion wasn't his own and separate himself from it, perhaps he could gain control of his reactions.

"Blair, thank you for coming down here to give your statement." Grissom smiled. "We need to at least give the appearance of running this case normally."

He nodded. "I get it. I'm just not sure that there's much I can tell you that'll help."

Brass shrugged. "You never know what's going to be useful. Besides, Grissom has a way of bringing out information that people don't even know they have."

Grissom snorted softly. "Don't let Jim fool you. I'm no miracle worker."

"Maybe not," Catherine said with a small smile, "but you do tend to get to the heart of a matter."

Simon sat down next to Blair, but Jim remained standing behind him. Blair felt a rush of affection for both men, glad that Simon was there along with Jim. The men and women from Las Vegas had treated him well, but he was still an outsider. It was good to know that he wasn't alone in this.

"Well, be that as it may," Grissom said and raised an eyebrow, "shall we begin?"

Grissom led him through leaving New Mexico and arriving at Las Vegas. They got through the last thing he remembered--being on the bus to Albuquerque--and then Grissom tried to get the memory of his abduction to surface. After several frustrating tries, they decided to skip ahead to the next thing he could remember.

"I don't think I have any real memories. I mean, there are a lot of images, but they're all jumbled up and I don't know whether they're real or whether I dreamed them." Blair glanced back at Jim for a moment before continuing. "One thing I remember is being in pain a lot. I remember begging someone to make it stop. But what I remember most clearly is believing that Jim would find me. I think that's what kept me from going completely mad from the pain, to be honest."

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. A warm hand landed on his shoulder, bringing comfort with the contact. He let the good feelings flow through him, strengthening him for the next round of questions.

"You said that you have a lot of jumbled images." Grissom cocked his head. "Can you describe them? Don't worry about whether they make sense or whether there's any kind of order to them. Just describe each image as best you can."

Blair nodded. "I guess I can do that."

He described several images in rapid succession. Being in agony and wanting, needing to move, but unable to do so because he was strapped down; being unable to see, wondering if he were going mad; calling out for help, but no one coming; enjoying a brief respite from pain and then despairing at seeing the needle approach.

With each additional description he felt the weight of Jim's pain grow. He tried to maintain his separation from Jim's feelings, but his tenuous control was slipping badly. His hands were cold and clammy and cold sweat beaded up on his forehead and upper lip. He desperately wanted a distraction, something to help him regain at least an illusion of control, but his brain refused to think of anything to suggest.

Grissom frowned slightly and leaned forward. "We've been at this for a couple of hours. You look like you could use a break."

Blair nodded gratefully. "Yeah, man, I could. Thanks." He sagged back in his chair, still aware of Jim behind him, his emotions churning between them like acid.

Grissom glanced at Catherine and then back at Brass. "This might be a good time to have Detective Ellison and Captain Banks take a look at the other victims from the MedLab." When Jim began to protest, he raised a quelling hand. "We won't continue with this until you get back, I promise."

Blair could've kissed Grissom for his suggestion. "That's probably a good idea, Jim. You know I'm not a big fan of morgue visits in Cascade. No way am I up to dealing with a visit to the morgue here for this. And since Simon's here, he can go with you to, uh, help you with the examinations." He was having such a hard time holding it together that he refused to feel guilty about playing the sentinel card.

"Kid's right, Jim," Simon said quietly. He rose to his feet. "Why don't we get that over with, give Sandburg a chance to catch his breath? Then when he finishes up, we'll be able to head back to the hotel."

"I don't know," Jim said, his reluctance to leave plain in his voice. "I don't like leaving him here alone."

"He won't be alone, Detective." Grissom glanced up at Jim. "Nick and I will be here with him. You don't need to worry."

"Jim," Blair said softly. "Go. I'd feel better if you'd look over the evidence. I'll be fine here with Nick and Gil." He tried to concentrate and send a feeling of confidence to Jim.

After a long moment, Jim said, "All right. But you stay right here, you got that, Chief?"

"Yeah, yeah. I got it." He shook his head. "Just go do your thing and get your butt back here, okay? I need a break, but I want to get this over with, too."

Jim turned to Brass. "Let's go."

Blair sighed after they'd all left the room. He wanted to wait until he was reasonably sure that Jim would be caught up in his examination before he said anything. The lessening of emotional pressure was a blessed relief, though he felt somewhat guilty about it. Having to get rid of Jim in order to have relief from his emotions wasn't something that boded well for the future.

"So, Blair, how're you doing?" Nick asked with a smile.

He shrugged. "I'll be all right. Has to be done, right?"

"Right. Listen, I think I'll go get some coffee. You all want some?" Nick glanced at Blair and Grissom, who shook his head.

"Nah, man, that's okay. I don't think it'd sit too well right now." Blair smiled his thanks for the offer.

"Okay. I'll be back in a few."

Nick left the room, leaving him alone with Grissom. Blair shifted in his seat, suddenly nervous at being the focus of such intense scrutiny. Did Grissom have any idea of the affect that his interest had on his subjects?

"How are you really feeling?" Grissom's voice was quiet.

"I'm okay, I guess. I was pretty doped up for most of the time I was being held."

"I'd say that you're doing just fine, considering." Grissom smiled slightly. "That last image, of the syringe? I don't suppose you can see behind the needle to the person holding it?"

Blair frowned. "I don't know. A shape, maybe. But details?" He shook his head.

"Well, when they get back from the morgue, we'll try--" The ringing of Grissom's cell phone interrupted him. "Grissom. Yeah, I'm in the Lab. No, I can't. I see. Yes. All right. I'll be there right away." He pressed the off button on his phone.

"Something wrong?"

"I need to go check on this, but I don't want to leave you alone. Hold on a moment." Grissom pressed a speed-dial number on his phone and frowned. Blair could hear it ring several times and then roll over to what he assumed was someone's voice mail. "Nick, it's Grissom. As soon as you get this, come back to the conference room."

They waited in a strained silence for several minutes. Finally, Grissom stood up.

"I really have to go check on something. I know I told Detective Ellison that you wouldn't leave this room and that I wouldn't leave you alone, but I'm kind of stuck between a rock and a hard place." He cocked his head and gazed at Blair, a serious expression on his face. "I can leave you alone in here or you can come with me. What would you prefer?"

The thought of going out where there were so many people to deal with was frightening, but it wasn't half as terrifying as the thought of being alone in a strange place.

"I'll go with you." He just hoped he sounded more confident than he felt as he followed Grissom out the door.


	37. Chapter 37

They took multiple turnings and Blair was struck by the size of the facility. It was nothing like the Forensics department in Cascade. He'd once overheard Simon complaining about all of the expensive equipment Forensics had and yet they sometimes still had to send evidence out to be processed. From the looks of things here, Las Vegas could very well be one of the labs where Cascade sent their evidence.

He thought at first that he was doing well with distracting himself, but as they approached the DNA lab, his gut began to churn. They stopped in DNA and Blair stepped into a far corner, taking care not to jostle any of the complex looking equipment nor to touch any of the glassware. He shivered slightly, though the room was no colder than any other part of the building.

"Blair," Grissom said, "you've met Greg Sanders. Greg, you remember Blair Sandburg."

There was a hint of something--a warning?--in Grissom's voice as he turned to Greg. Blair was amused to see Greg gulp as he stared up at Grissom from his stool. He'd chosen the spot that seemed furthest away from Greg and yet he could still feel the confused emotions that were radiating off of the kid.

Kid. Blair shook his head. Greg was probably close to his own age, but there was an air of something about him that made him seem so much younger. Not innocence exactly, but inexperience perhaps. Blair suddenly felt old, as though the crushing weight of his experiences with Jim was sitting on his shoulders and aging him beyond his years. It didn't help that he recognized in Greg a version of himself as he was a few years ago.

Greg smiled at him and gave a little wave. "Yeah. Hey. Welcome to the DNA lab."

He nodded and managed to smile. The emotions coming off Greg were so confused now and so strong that he didn't think he'd be coherent if he tried to speak. The strongest emotion was an anxiety that seemed streaked with fear and anger. The problem with this whole thing, he thought sourly, was he could feel and taste the emotions, but with the notable exception of Jim, he still had to rely on other cues to know what they meant. He couldn't tell if Greg was anxious and fearful about something to do with him being there, or if all that emotion was related to a different case, nothing to do with him at all.

Greg spoke to Grissom in a voice too low for Blair to hear. Grissom's expression went from mild to grave to furious. Whatever Greg was telling him, it wasn't good news.

"Is he still here or has he gone home?" Grissom's voice was finally loud enough for Blair to hear and he didn't sound happy.

"I think he's still here," Greg responded. "That's why I wanted to talk to you right away. What do you want me to do?"

"Find him. Bring him back here. Don't tell him why." Grissom's words were clipped, emphasizing his anger. "I need to talk to him. It looks bad, but let's not jump to conclusions."

Greg nodded and slid off his stool. His expression was troubled as he headed for the door. "I'll see if I can track him down. If he hasn't left, then I think I know where to find him."

Grissom watched him leave, the tension in his body the only sign of his anger. Well, that and the strength of the emotions that Blair could still sense under the tight self-control that Grissom was wielding. Was Grissom always like that, presenting a calm exterior but seething with emotions under the surface? Blair hoped not, because at that rate the man was heading for a stroke or worse.

Grissom glanced at him. "I think we may have just had a major break in the case."

"And you don't like it." Blair frowned.

"No. I don't." He sighed. "It isn't logical, but I kept hoping that we were wrong about someone else from the Lab being involved."

"Might not be logical, but it's understandable. This is your domain, your home, if you will. And the people here, no matter how well or how little you know them, they're part of your family, your tribe. You don't want to believe that you've been betrayed by one of them."

Blair shifted uneasily under Grissom's stare. Maybe he shouldn't have shared that particular observation. Sometimes he spoke without considering how other people might take things and then he regretted it later.

"Perhaps you're right." Grissom shrugged and glanced away. "I'll give him the chance to explain, but I don't hold out much hope that I'm wrong."

Grissom's cell phone rang and he flipped it open. "Grissom. Nick, where the hell are you? We're in the DNA lab. All right." He glanced at Blair. "Nick didn't get my message for some reason. He's at the conference room, but he'll be here in a minute."

They waited in an uncomfortable silence until Nick showed up. He glanced at them and frowned, as if sensing the odd undercurrent between them.

"Griss?"

Grissom gestured for him to come close and they stood with their heads together, speaking softly. Blair turned around, ostensibly to examine the equipment more closely, but in reality trying to give Grissom and Nick the illusion of privacy. His curiosity was up, but he was also strangely reluctant to learn more about what was going on.

He heard Greg and another man before they came through the door. A glance at the reflective surface of the computer monitor to his right showed the distorted image of two men at the double door, midway between where he stood and where Nick and Grissom were talking. Greg was hanging back, in the doorway, as the other man entered the lab. Something about the second man raised Blair's hackles.

"Grissom? Greg said you wanted to talk to me?" the man said as he strode into the lab. He ignored Blair, who was still turned away.

"I have some questions about your work on the MedLab case, Richeson." Grissom's voice was hard.

"What about it? I haven't done much, just helped Greg with some stuff." Blair could clearly hear the tension in Richeson's voice and he could feel his anger. Were the others aware of the danger they were in?

"I've already talked to Greg."

The escalation in tension made it hard to breathe. Blair slowly turned and wasn't surprised to see Nick begin to edge his way towards the door. He glanced at the man Grissom had called Richeson and time froze. He knew that profile. It was his tormentor, returned to finish the job.

*FLASH*

_Strapped to a gurney, no escape from his pain and suffering, and Richeson's face leering down at him. Calling him his Lab Rat._

*FLASH*

_Floating without pain. Nothingness a blessed relief from the onslaught of vileness that surrounded him. Feeling the return of the diseased soul that preceded the worst of his pain._

*FLASH*

_Crying out in agony, Richeson's hand stroking over his forehead, unaware that it was his emotions, his presence that caused Blair's pain._

*FLASH*

Richeson. He had a name for evil now. They didn't know what they were facing. He had to do something. Had to warn them. Had to destroy it. But evil couldn't ever be destroyed. Could it?

Time unfroze at last. He must have moved, drawn their attention, because Richeson turned his head and looked shocked to see him. He wanted to laugh or maybe cry, he wasn't sure which, when Richeson turned back to Grissom, his expression furious. Richeson reached for the gun in the holster carried in the middle of his back. Just like Jim wore, Blair thought hysterically, as Nick reach behind himself as well.

After that, everything seemed to move in slow motion, in a kind of time dilation effect that made a few seconds crawl by like long agonizing minutes. Greg leapt back out of the doorway, allowing the double doors to slide shut. Richeson brought his gun up and shot before Nick could draw his gun from its holster.

Richeson reacted to Nick's movement and made a kick that shouldn't have worked, but connected with Nick's hand, dislodging his gun and sending it clattering to Blair's feet. Without stopping to consider what he was doing, Blair scooped up the gun and rose, holding it in both hands and pointing it at Richeson. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nick dive for Grissom.

Grissom was down. Blair didn't know just how badly he'd been hurt, all he could see was Nick sprawled over the top of him. The CSI was doing his damndest to protect his boss, his friend, in the only way he could, by putting his own body between Grissom and danger. Just like Blair would do if that were Jim on the floor.

Richeson held his gun steady, pointing it at the two men on the floor with nary a tremor in his hand, but his gaze was fixed on Blair. No one else existed. No one could enter the room without risking that Richeson would shoot one or more of them. Nor could they shoot Richeson through the windows, Blair thought, since surely they were made of bulletproof glass. No one could come to their rescue. It was all up to Blair.

Unlike Richeson, Blair's hands trembled as he held the gun, the cold metal burning his palms. He'd held a gun before, hell, he'd shot a gun before, and he'd never known them to be so heavy. What was different about this one? Why did it feel like the weight of the world was centered inside it? He couldn't afford to let the barrel droop. All it would take would be one second of hesitation and the mistake would be fatal. Richeson might eventually die, but it was a sure bet that one or more of them would most certainly be dead as well.

Blair gazed into Richeson's eyes, chilled at the emptiness there. No spark that said a human being lived inside. Hatred, he could understand, but the nothingness behind those eyes made him shiver.

"You going to pull the trigger, Rat?" Richeson asked, his contempt for Blair showing in the offhand tone of his voice. "No. I don't think you are. You don't have what it takes, do you Rat?"

"Stop calling me that," he said, voice sharp with anger.

"Why? That's what you are, isn't it? Lab Rat. That's all that made you important to us. To me." Richeson chuckled, a nasty little sound like a metal file dragged over rusty nails. "Soon as the government gets a good look at our results, that's all you'll be to them, too."

"Shut up!"

His palms were slick with sweat and he tightened his grip on the gun, afraid that it might slip. Richeson was wrong. He wasn't some lab rat doomed to live his life at the mercy of unscrupulous scientists. He was a man. He had a life and he loved and was loved in return. There were people who cared about him. He wouldn't roll over and play dead now just because Richeson had tried to take that life away from him.

The anger inside over what had been done to him bubbled up, burning into a rage so strong that Blair was afraid that he'd burst from it. He could feel it spilling out of him, could see it washing across the floor like a physical wave that crashed against tables and chairs and equipment like a flood until it reached for Richeson. He heard gasps from Nick and Grissom, but he couldn't be concerned with them now. All that mattered was destroying the one who threatened him.

Finally something flickered in those empty eyes. Fear. Richeson didn't understand what was happening, but he knew enough to be afraid. Hysteria lodged in Blair's throat, threatening to burst free in maniacal laughter. He didn't know. All of that time, injecting Blair with that retrovirus, thinking it had failed somehow and he didn't know just what he'd managed to create. A sob escaped. Richeson was about to meet his monster face to face and he wasn't going to enjoy it.

A part of him--the gentle, loving, part of him--railed inside, trying to convince him to stop. To let Richeson live. It reminded him that he had so much more to live for now, that Jim was there for him, wanted him, _loved_ him. But the rage was too great, too overwhelming. It drowned out the other, silenced the loving voice, at least long enough to ready itself for that final push. That impossible reaching out to the twisted mind of Richeson in order to burn it, snuff it out, cleanse the living tissue of the cancer that masqueraded as a man.

He took a deep breath, unsure if he could do it, unsure if he would survive the doing. Just as he readied to unleash the monster inside him, the door to the lab slid open, drawing all of their attention in varying degrees and breaking Blair's concentration. Without focus, his rage peaked and burnt out, leaving an empty husk in its wake.

"Blair!" Jim shouted and dove into the room.

It was all over in a matter of seconds and yet it seemed to last forever. Richeson's gaze flickered to the door and he swung his gun around, shooting at Jim. At the same time, Nick grabbed Grissom and rolled them both over and over until he had them tucked as securely as he could manage behind the dubious protection of a lab table. Blair's gaze never wavered from Richeson. As Richeson was moving, swinging his gun around to aim again at Jim, Blair raised his gun, closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the small space. Blair only heard one shot. That meant that he'd gotten his shot off before Richeson, right? He pried his eyes open to see Jim on the floor, clutching at his thigh and Simon kicking the gun out of Richeson's outstretched hand, though it had to be obvious to him that the man wasn't going to be moving ever again.

The lab was strangely silent, at least to Blair. He didn't notice the bustle of activity as cops, lab workers and paramedics descended on them. He forced himself to take one small step, then another and another, until he stood next to Simon. Blair made himself look down. Richeson lay on his back, gun hand outstretched and eyes open, a bullet hole perfectly centered in his forehead.

"I killed him," Blair whispered, his eyes wide. It wasn't as though he hadn't wanted to kill. The rage that had nearly swallowed them both was testament to that. But now that it was done, he couldn't seem to understand how it was possible. He couldn't seem to feel anything but numb.

"No, son. You didn't kill him." Simon shook his head. "I did." He raised his right hand and Blair saw the gun held solidly in his grip.

"But I shot my gun."

Simon smiled slightly. "That you did. But you see, I aimed mine. Big difference." He looked around and then pointed at the shattered cover of the fume hood in the corner of the room. "My guess is, we'll find the bullet from your gun in there."

"I didn't kill him?" The trembling was back.

"No."

His eyes widened and he whirled. "Jim!"

A hand on his arm stopped his flight. He glanced down at his hand as Simon gingerly removed the gun he still clutched.

"I think I better hold onto this, don't you?" Simon smiled.

Blair nodded and rushed to Jim's side. "Are you okay, man? Let me look at that." He pried Jim's hand off his thigh and gently peeled back the ripped material of his pants leg.

"I'm okay, Sandburg. It's just a flesh wound." Jim gave him a lopsided grin. "I've always wanted to say that."

"Asshole." The word was harsh, but his tone was light.

"That's me." Jim was entirely too cheerful about the whole thing for Blair's liking. "How are Nick and Grissom?"

"The paramedics are working on Grissom now. His gunshot wound is a bit more serious than yours. Nick's okay." Simon stood over them, his arms crossed. "Damn it, Jim. What part of not going off half-cocked didn't you understand?"

Jim shrugged. "I had to move when I did, Simon. Things were getting kind of, uh, dicey in here and Richeson wasn't going to wait for us to pick our moment." He raised an eyebrow as he cocked his head at Blair.

"Oh. Well, still, you could've given me more warning than just shouting Sandburg's name like that. How'd you know that I'd follow you?"

"I couldn't be positive, but it seemed likely. Anyone else and I would've been taking a huge risk." He grinned. "I knew you'd come through one way or another."

"Uh-huh." Simon moved out of the way of the paramedic, allowing him to kneel beside Jim to work on his leg. "Make sure the needle you use is a dull one, would you?" he said dryly.

The paramedic just grinned. "Sorry. I'm all out of those. Funny thing, Nick made the exact same request."

"Yeah. Funny." Simon stepped away, muttering under his breath about idiots trying to be heroes.

"He's gonna be all right, isn't he?" Blair asked.

"Him?" The paramedic nodded at Jim. "He'll be just fine. This doesn't even look like it needs stitches, but I'll let a doctor make that call."

"How about Grissom?" Jim asked.

"He'll be okay. Probably be laid up for a bit, but the bullet didn't appear to hit anything major." They looked up as the other paramedic team wheeled Grissom out on a gurney, Nick walking at his side.

"Help me up, Chief."

Blair and Simon both lent a hand to pull Jim up from the floor. Jim waved off a gurney, indicating that he'd walk and then he wrapped an arm around Blair's shoulder. Blair glanced up at him, concerned that he was hurt more seriously than they'd thought, but relaxed when he caught Jim's wink. Oh. Fine with him, he thought, as he wrapped his arm around Jim's waist. He could do the concerned friend lending aid bit if it gave him an excuse to stay close to Jim. No problem.

Greg was waiting just down the hall, along with Catherine, Warrick, Sara and Captain Brass. Brass had stopped the paramedics and was speaking quietly with Grissom. He placed a hand on Grissom's shoulder for a moment, before smiling and waving them on, gesturing that Nick should go with them.

"So, you two are heading for the hospital, right?" Brass asked. "Get that leg checked out by a doctor?"

Blair could feel Jim tense and wondered if he would protest, but Jim surprised him.

"That's right. It probably won't take long, and then we'll be back for an explanation of how this all happened."

Blair sighed softly. So that's the way it was going to be. He wished he could let Jim know that it was okay, that he was all right. Unconsciously, he tried to reach out to Jim and feel his emotions, but there was nothing there. He stopped in shock, pulling Jim up short. Frantically he cast around and realized that he wasn't feeling anyone's emotions. His heart hammered in his chest and he glanced up to see Jim gazing down at him in concern.

"I..." He shook his head and jerked his chin to indicate that they should keep going.

"I'll stay here," Simon said, his voice grave. "Might as well get started answering questions about the shooting. No sense putting it off."


	38. Chapter 38

When they returned from the hospital, Catherine met them at reception. She led them to Grissom's office, a room that Sandburg seemed to find fascinating and it reminded Jim of Sandburg's old office in the artifact storage room. Jim noted with interest that Catherine didn't sit in Grissom's chair; she merely leaned against the desk and gestured for them to take the two chairs that faced it.

"Brass'll meet us here," she said. "How's your leg?"

"No stitches." Jim shrugged. "It's a little sore, but I'm fine."

"How's Grissom doing?" Sandburg asked. "We didn't have a chance to find out while we were at the hospital."

She smiled. "Nick called just before you got here. They have him in surgery right now, but he'll be fine. He should be ready for visitors by tomorrow."

"What about Simon?" Sandburg glanced at Jim.

"I imagine Captain Brass'll be able to tell us," he replied.

Catherine nodded. "It's procedure. Every time there's a shooting there has to be an official investigation, no matter how justified the incident. The good news is that the LVPD is treating this as an internal investigation."

"IA?" Blair frowned and turned to Jim. "Why is that good? You've never liked being investigated by IA."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "No, I haven't. But Catherine's right about this. They're treating Simon as one of their own, instead of as a civilian. It was a good shooting. He'll be cleared and we'll be able to go home."

"That's right." She glanced out the door. "Here's Jim now."

They both turned in their seats to see Brass lean into the room, his usual half-smile on his face.

"Back so soon? I bet you'd like to see your Captain." His smile widened slightly. "He's done with the questioning and they're typing up his report now for his signature. We can go meet him in the conference room we were in earlier."

The conference room looked the same as it had, God, was it only a few hours ago? Jim shook his head and settled Sandburg into a chair on the side of the table opposite the door, much to the kid's amusement. Jim slid into the seat next to him and took a moment to really take stock of Sandburg with his senses. His heart rate was up a bit, but otherwise he seemed fine. Better than he had when they'd been there earlier in the day.

Jim tried to sense Sandburg's emotions, but couldn't, just as when he'd tried the same thing while they were waiting for the doctor to show up in the examining room. Something was definitely up with that. He hoped it meant that Sandburg had found a way to attain some kind of control over this new ability of his. As much as he'd been awed by being able to share their most intimate emotions when they'd made love, it still made him uncomfortable.

He couldn't help worrying that eventually it would all become too much for Sandburg to take. And no relationship was perfect. Hell, just look at their friendship. While it was strong and steady, there were also little blow ups that happened now and again. Little irritations and bad moods and what-have-yous. How would they deal with those now when neither could hide how they were really feeling? It was a sobering thought.

The door opened and Simon came in. He was carrying an unlit cigar and wearing a smug expression that allowed Jim to finally relax fully. Whatever he'd just gone through, he was definitely satisfied with the outcome.

Simon sat down in the seat on the other side of Sandburg and Jim hid a smile. No matter how pleased he might be about things, Simon was still showing his protective side when it came to the kid. Especially after the shooting earlier.

"Jim. Sandburg." Simon nodded at them.

"Simon." Jim raised an eyebrow. "How'd the questioning go?"

Simon shrugged, exhibiting a nonchalance that was only partially feigned. "Routine. They didn't even have a chance to work into the standard suspicious IA line of questioning that assumes since you fired your gun you must have had an ulterior motive for doing so."

"Why's that?" Sandburg asked.

"The Sheriff was there and for once he put his foot down." Brass pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. "They'd already questioned everyone outside the DNA lab who'd witnessed the shooting and they'd all said the same thing. It was justified. The Sheriff wasn't about to have any kind of harassment charge brought up about this."

"They didn't seem too inclined to pursue it, though."

Brass shrugged. "They're not stupid. Even they don't believe that there was anything more there. They were just going through the motions."

Simon nodded, still looking smug.

"So what's the word on the guy who was shot?" Jim asked. A slight sound from Sandburg drew his attention. "What is it, Chief?"

Sandburg glanced at him, an unreadable look in his eyes. "I recognized him, Jim."

"Recognized him? You mean, from the MedLab?" Jim frowned.

"Yeah," he replied quietly. "When I saw him, I had these flashes of him injecting me with that stuff, leaning over me. It was horrible." He bowed his head and clenched his hands into fists on the table.

Jim placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to convey that he was there for him. He'd rather have pulled him into his arms, but they hadn't discussed just how public they were going to be with the change in their relationship. He didn't want to embarrass him when all he was trying to do was offer comfort.

Jim glanced over Sandburg's head and exchanged a look with Simon. Whatever he needed in order to get through the aftermath of his ordeal, they'd make sure he got. Simon's eyes narrowed and Jim had no problem understanding that he'd better not try to leave him out of things. Jim nodded. Whatever support Simon could offer would be gratefully accepted.

Simon glanced at Brass. "So this guy was your inside man?"

Brass tossed a thin file on the table in front of them and Jim snagged it. "Alan Richeson. He's been working here for 11 months. His credentials and references checked out. In the entire time he's been here, there's been no reason for us to question his background."

Jim flipped through the meager information in the file and frowned. "You still don't have much, do you? I mean, all you've got here is a re-check of his references, only this time they didn't pan out. What else have you got?"

Brass shook his head. "That's it. Now that we have him identified, we'll tie him with the workings of the MedLab project. And we have the fact that Hollings listed him as one of the people he suspected was involved."

"How did you identify him anyway?" Sandburg asked.

"Greg Sanders. Everyone who worked with DNA samples was a suspect. Greg had started to put two and two together and went to Catherine with his concerns. Seems our boy Alan had volunteered to help Greg a few times when he was swamped. Then, when the blood samples from the MedLab case were being processed, he called in the favors Greg owed him. He switched the blood samples he'd received from the CSIs with clean ones and asked Greg to run the tests for him. Greg didn't think anything of it and probably still wouldn't if it hadn't been for the information on that computer disk of Hollings's." Brass raised his eyebrows.

"So, Greg told Catherine this and?" Simon leaned forward. "Why didn't you question him?"

"Catherine and Greg went to Grissom." Brass shrugged. "We didn't have names at that point and we didn't want to tip our hand too early. I agreed to back off and see if we could dig up something on Richeson. While you were examining the victims in the morgue, the results of the new background check on Richeson came in. I was going to call him into an interrogation room, but Grissom had already asked Greg to bring Richeson to the DNA lab for a talk. I guess he got more confirmation than he was expecting."

Catherine nodded. "I can't say that I'm sorry you shot him, Captain Banks. I know it might have been better to have the son of a bitch alive in order to question him, but I, for one, am glad he's dead."

"Believe her." Brass grinned. "You're talking to the woman who pumped several bullets into a serial killer who was about to take Grissom out. No hesitation."

"Sounds like Jim." Sandburg glanced at Catherine and smiled shyly. "He once killed a serial killer who had me chained up ready to be his next victim. Put five bullets in him."

"Just wanted to make sure he stayed dead," Jim muttered.

"If we're done playing how many times we've shot the serial killer, could we get on with this?" Simon frowned. "There's no way that Richeson and the other guy, Hollings? There's no way that the two of them were the only ones involved in this operation. The logistics alone would have taken a medical staff of some sort. What about them?"

Brass nodded soberly. "You're right of course. And we're trying our damndest to find them. It's like they just faded into the woodwork. We've got a team at Richeson's house, tearing it apart looking for information."

Catherine frowned. "Who? I don't remember seeing the assignment sheet? You didn't give it to Eckley, did you?"

Brass shook his head. "I've got O'Riley in charge of the investigation. I asked Warrick and Sara to take charge of the scene. I know I should've gone through you, but it needed to be assigned right away. Otherwise, it technically should have gone to Eckley."

"Who did you put in charge?"

"Warrick."

She raised an eyebrow. "Next time page me. I can't do the job if you don't respect that I'm in charge."

Brass nodded. "I do respect that. And it won't happen again."

Catherine smiled and said, "If there's anything to find at Richeson's, they'll find it. And they know how sensitive this is. Until Grissom gets back, we're still working under the assumption that we may need to keep certain information back."

"That's going to get a lot harder. The Sheriff's already called in the Feds."

"Why?" Catherine frowned. "We've been handling it just fine. Well, except for having a shoot out in the Lab, but still, it's not like that'll happen again. Why call the Feds in now?"

Brass snorted softly. "Because they've been clamoring to be involved and now that Mobley thinks he's already got the case sewn up, he wants to score some brownie points. Besides, have you seen the news lately?"

"Who's had time to watch television?" She shook her head. "I haven't even had five minutes for the one in the break room."

"It's been all over the news. There's been a hell of a lot of wild speculation, from a suicide cult to an outbreak of plague to an opium den. Finding so many bodies like that, the only surprise is that they haven't tumbled onto just what was really going on in that building, considering that it's in the middle of a medical complex. Think about the hysteria that'd happen if people knew even half of the truth." Brass shook his head. "Hell, I bet we only know half the truth. It's going to take time to piece things together. In the meantime, bringing the FBI in is good publicity. They can stand up in front of the cameras and reassure the public."

Simon rolled his cigar between his fingers. "Your Sheriff must be something. I've never had the luxury of being able to use the Feds like that. They generally show up demanding our cooperation on their terms. Not something that instills a lot of willingness to go out of our way for them."

"Ah, but our Sheriff is nothing if not a political animal. Manipulating the FBI and the media is something that he excels at." Brass gave them a sardonic smile and leaned back in his chair.

"Are you sure that he's the only one."

Jim blinked and glanced down at Sandburg. His voice had been so soft, that Jim had almost missed the question. His mouth tightened and he glanced across the table at Catherine and Brass.

"Pardon?" Brass said with a frown.

Sandburg raised his gaze from the table and repeated, "Are you sure that he's the only one? That Richeson's the only one involved here at the Lab or in the LVPD?"

Catherine and Brass glanced at each other and then Brass shook his head. "There's no way to know for sure. At least not until we sift through whatever evidence Warrick and Sara come up with at his house."

Sandburg gazed at Jim, his expression unreadable. "I want to go home, Jim."

Jim searched his face, looking for something, anything that would give him a clue as to what Sandburg was thinking. He even tried to reach out and feel his emotions, but again was met with nothing. It amazed him that he could have gotten so used to doing that in such a short period of time and then find himself mourning the loss of that connection when it didn't work. Ultimately, though, it didn't matter. Sandburg wanted to go home and Jim was more than ready to accommodate him. He glanced across the table at Brass.

"He's given you his statement. Is there any valid reason to keep him here? You know that he'll be subjected to questioning by the FBI if he stays."

Brass looked unhappy and the cop in Jim couldn't blame him. He'd definitely be in for some major heat from his superiors if he let the only surviving victim leave town. But he could argue that they'd followed protocol and gotten a statement from said victim and that since he was attached, however unofficially, to the police department in Cascade that surely any further questions could be asked in that jurisdiction. Jim knew all of the angles and could almost see the wheels spinning in Brass's mind as he sorted through them.

Brass nodded slowly. "I suppose that there's really no reason to ask you to stay. We'll need to get both of your statements about what happened with Richeson, but after that, I guess we can officially cut you loose."

"Don't you want to wait around to hear about whatever evidence we turn up at Richeson's?" Catherine asked, her tone genuinely curious.

Jim glanced down at Sandburg, staring at the table and looking decidedly pale, and shook his head. "I don't think so. Sure, we want to be kept informed about the investigation. But I think it's time to put some distance between us and Las Vegas." He met her gaze across the table. "It's time for us to go home."

She glanced at Sandburg and her face softened. "Of course."

Simon rose and rested a hand on Sandburg's shoulder. "You'll keep us informed of the progress of the investigation?"

Catherine smiled. "I'm sure that can be arranged. Once Grissom is back on his feet, he may have a few more questions, but until then..."

Sandburg raised his head and glanced around the table hopefully. "That's it? We can really leave?"

Jim frowned and wondered again what was going on in his head. "Yeah, Chief. Looks like we're about through here."

"Good."

 

 

 

Jim waited until they were in the rental car before saying anything. They were half-way to the hotel when he turned and stared at Sandburg in the back seat.

"Want to tell me what that was all about back there, Chief?"

Sandburg turned from watching the scenery pass to look at him. "Huh?"

"Why the sudden desire to go back to Cascade? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for it. Just, why now? There are still so many open questions left." He raised his eyebrows and could sense Simon's interest from the driver's seat. "Don't you want to know the answers?"

"It doesn't matter."

"How can you say that?" Jim frowned. "You were kidnapped and experimented on. You were tortured, for God's sake! How can you say that it doesn't matter?"

Sandburg sighed. "Richeson's dead. He's the one who decided to make me his own personal lab rat. I don't know why I fascinated him so much and I doubt I'll ever know. He's the one who kept injecting me with the retrovirus, even though it wasn't working on me like it did on the others. Maybe he got his kicks out of all of the pain that it put me through. Maybe he thought that if he just gave me enough of it that it'd start working. Or maybe I just became some kind of obsession for him."

"Chief--"

"The bottom line is," Sandburg interrupted, his voice weary, "he's dead. He can't hurt me anymore. Whoever else was involved? Let the Las Vegas PD find 'em, if they can. I won't be much help with that. Richeson's the only one I remember seeing. I just want to go home and try to forget that this ever happened." He closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat.

Jim faced forward in silence, mulling it over. It wasn't like Sandburg to give up, to leave something like this alone when there were still mysteries to uncover. Especially when those mysteries had to do with himself.

They arrived at the hotel just as the first streaks of true dawn were lighting the Strip. They rode the elevator to their suite, the only occupants of the car. Sandburg was silent and that in and of itself worried Jim. Sure, he'd been through a lot, but he hadn't ever let anything he'd experienced suppress his normal curiosity before. Jim caught Simon frowning down at the top of Sandburg's head. So he wasn't the only one worried about him, but he wasn't sure if he felt relieved or worse to know it.

The phone was ringing when they entered the suite and Simon answered it.

"Banks." He shook his head at Jim when he pointed at himself and raised an eyebrow. "I see. All right. I'm sure that'll be fine." He hung up the phone.

"Simon?"

"That was Captain Brass. They've made reservations for us on Cascade Air for later this afternoon. That was the earliest flight they could get us on. He'll send someone over to pick us up and take us to the airport. We can leave the rental car here."

"All right." Jim glanced down at Sandburg, concerned by how pale he looked. "You look like you could use a nap, Chief. Come on." The fact that Sandburg didn't argue and let himself be steered towards the bedroom sent up a warning flare for Jim. "We'll see you in the morning, or, um, later this morning, anyway."

Simon nodded, a concerned look in his eyes. "Knock on my door if you need anything."

Jim waved a hand in reply and ushered Sandburg into their bedroom. He pulled the blackout drapes closed, shutting out the rapidly brightening sky. Sandburg had moved to his side of the bed and was staring at it as if the decision of whether to just flop down on top or get undressed and crawl beneath the covers was too much for him.

Jim turned him around and began to unbutton his shirt, making the decision for him. He efficiently stripped Sandburg down to his tee shirt and boxers, then pulled back the covers and urged him into the bed. He brushed back the curls from Sandburg's face, wondering if he'd ever know what was going on in his head. He turned away, meaning to undress and slip under the covers himself, when Sandburg's soft voice stopped him.

"Stay?"

It was a question with more than one meaning and Jim could hear the uncertainty behind it. He tried again to sense Sandburg's emotions only to fail yet again. He turned around and smiled.

"Always, Chief." When Sandburg smiled in return, he added, "I'm just going to get undressed and join you. If that's okay?" He gestured at the other side of the bed.

Sandburg nodded, his gaze never leaving Jim. Jim quickly circled the bed, stripping out of his own clothes until he was down to his boxers. He crawled under the covers and, after only a slight hesitation, opened his arms, hoping he wasn't making a fool out of himself. He sighed in relief as Sandburg scooted over and pressed himself against Jim's long length. Jim tousled his hair gently and then circled Sandburg's shoulders with his arms, pulling him even closer.

"Okay Chief?"

"Mm-hm." The response was a content, but drowsy hum.

"Good." He closed his eyes and finally relaxed.

"Jim?" His name was barely a whisper, but it pulled him back from the brink of sleep.

"Hm?"

"I love you."

Jim's eyes opened and all thought of sleep vanished. Sandburg's admission was obviously heartfelt, but he could also hear the thread of tension just below the words. What was going on? Well, whatever it was, there was only one response that Jim was going to give to that.

"I love you, too, Chief." He tightened his embrace. "What brought that on?"

"It's gone."

"What's gone? I don't understand."

"The... ability, or whatever it was that I had, to feel other people's emotions? It's gone." Sandburg's voice sounded strained.

"What happened?"

"I think it burned out or something. During the confrontation with Richeson."

Jim frowned. "How?"

Sandburg swallowed heavily and pressed his face against Jim's shoulder. He shivered slightly. "I wanted to kill him, Jim."

"It's only natural, Chief. Anyone would feel that way about him after what he did to you. But you didn't kill him. Simon did."

"You don't understand. I really wanted to kill him. I had all these flashes of Richeson hurting me. Injecting me and being there while I screamed in pain. Something... terrible... snapped inside me and I felt all this rage building and building and it was too much. I knew. Jim, I knew that I could just push all that rage into him and kill him. I was just about to do that when you rushed in and broke my focus. The rage didn't have anywhere to go. I think it was just too much for me to deal with." His grip tightened as if he were afraid that Jim would try to push him away.

This was important, Jim thought wildly. No one could possibly blame Sandburg for what he'd tried to do. No one but Sandburg himself, that is. He had to say just the right thing or he could blow this relationship before it even had a chance to get started.

"Chief," he began, "what you felt was a natural reaction to everything you'd been through. Who knows if you could really do what you thought you could do? I doubt that you were exactly in your right mind."

"You mean I'd finally lost it?" His voice sounded watery, as if he were fighting tears.

"Nah. You were just visiting the Sandburg Zone." Jim smiled slightly.

"The Sandburg Zone?"

"Yeah. Simon and I visit it frequently. Not a bad place. I'm thinking of taking up residence."

"You are?" His voice was definitely stronger.

"Well, yeah. Especially if that's where you'll be." He brushed his fingers over Sandburg's cheek. "You're stuck with me, Chief."

"I can live with that."

"Good." He thought about all the times he'd tried and failed to sense Sandburg's emotions since the shooting. "You know, I've been trying to get a sense of your emotions, like before, and I've been coming up empty. What makes you think that you burned out the ability?"

Sandburg was silent for a long moment and then said slowly, "The rage, man. It was like nothing I've ever felt before. It burned, Jim. I mean, like white-hot. It was too strong to contain. And I think holding it in and then releasing it like I did, without directing it, well, I think that's what did it. I haven't felt a single emotion from anyone since that moment."

"I can't say that I'm disappointed."

"What? I would've thought that you would be, disappointed, I mean." His voice turned soft. "It seemed like it was the perfect way for us to communicate. To really know how we felt about one another."

Jim shook his head. "No, Chief. Don't get me wrong. What we shared, how we shared it, was incredible and I'll always treasure the memory of it. But in the long run? I don't think anyone's ready for that kind of intimacy. And I sure as hell don't think any relationship can stand up under a lack of privacy like that." He slowly ran his hand up and down Sandburg's spine, kneading and caressing his back as he encountered knots of tension.

"So, you're okay with me just being me?" Again, Jim heard the question behind the question.

"Okay with it? I'm way more than okay with it." He put his finger under Sandburg's chin and gently urged him to raise his face so that they could look at each other. "You're the other half of me, Blair. I can't imagine my life without you in it."

Jim lowered his face until their lips touched and then he deepened the kiss. He pulled back just enough to touch foreheads and relaxed, enjoying the closeness. There would be a lot to talk over when they got home, but for now, all he wanted was to revel in the feeling of this moment.

"Jim?"

"Yeah?" Sandburg's respiration was increasing and his skin was turning cold.

"I'm scared, man."

"Why, Chief?"

"Who knows what else that shit did to me? Maybe there'll be something worse than that empathy stuff or whatever it was." He swallowed heavily.

And finally, Jim understood. It wasn't just the fact that they didn't know what the long term effects of the forced gene therapy were going to be. It was that Sandburg couldn't make himself ask what he needed to know.

"What if it does, Chief?" He kept his tone reasonable. "Whatever happens, we'll deal with it together. Right?"

Sandburg was silent for a long moment and then said with conviction, "Right." He yawned and Jim smiled.

"Go to sleep, Chief. By tomorrow we'll be home."

"Home."


	39. Chapter 39

Later that afternoon their bags were packed and waiting by the front door of the suite. Jim made one last tour of their bedroom, looking for stray items, but was finally satisfied that everything was in their suitcases. All they needed now was their ride to the airport.

Simon was on the phone to Joel in Cascade, arranging for someone to pick them up when they arrived. Sandburg paced the common room restlessly, occasionally stopping by the picture windows to gaze out at the Las Vegas Strip, gaudy in daylight like a two-bit whore dressed in debauched finery that could only be appreciated under the colored lights of night. Every once in a while, he'd bounce up on his toes as he strained to see something up or down the street.

Any other time Jim would've given him a hard time about not being able to keep still, but he was too damn glad to see some of Sandburg's natural exuberance come to the fore. However, he wasn't sorry to hear footsteps approach their door. He was up and halfway across the room before the knock sounded. It was Nick.

"Come on in." Jim held the door open. "We just need to wait for Simon to finish talking to Joel. He's setting up our ride home."

Nick nodded and walked into the room, smiling at Sandburg. "Hey. Glad to see everyone's okay."

"How's Grissom doing?" Sandburg asked, a small frown on his face.

"He's all right." Nick grinned. "Hating the fact that he's got to stay in the hospital for a few days, but other than that, he's doing just fine."

"I'm sorry we weren't able to visit him. Please tell him that we hope he feels better soon."

"I'll do that. Listen, Griss wanted me to assure you that if there's any way possible, that we'll keep as many of the details about the experiments out of the hands of the Feds as we can."

Sandburg crossed his arms over his chest. Jim stood behind him and rested his hands on his shoulders, enjoying the feel of Sandburg leaning his weight back against him just slightly.

"I understand." Sandburg shook his head slowly. "I appreciate what he's trying to do, but I know that sometimes things just have to be told. No matter how bad they are."

Nick shrugged. "You coulda knocked me over with a feather when Grissom suggested that we not admit to having that computer disk. I've never seen him do something like that before. I know that if he can, he'll make sure that it's buried. Right now it doesn't look like there'll be any more arrests soon, but if it comes to that and it means it would compromise the case..."

"Say no more." Sandburg held up his hand. "If there's a reason for it to come out, then so be it."

Simon hung up the phone, looking slightly harassed. "Things are hopping in Cascade. Jim, I don't know if I'm going to be able to give you much more time off when we get back."

"Simon--"

"It's okay," Sandburg interrupted. "Hey, if they need you, they need you. You'll just have to suck it up and get back to work." He glanced over his shoulder and smiled slightly.

"We don't just need Jim," Simon said, his tone was serious, but there was a definite gleam in his eyes. "There's been a series of burglaries in several museums and art galleries throughout the city. The last one was at the Natural History Museum and the Chief decided to bump the case to Major Crime. We'll need your expertise to figure this one out, Sandburg."

"Really? My help?" Sandburg's voice had a hopeful note in it.

Jim smiled knowingly at Simon as the other man nodded gravely. He handed Sandburg his backpack and picked up their remaining bags.

"That's right. Your help. Why d'you think I keep you on the payroll?" Simon reached for his suitcase and they headed for the elevator.

As they descended to the lobby, Sandburg frowned and glanced up at Simon. "Uh, Simon? I'm not on the payroll. Remember?"

Simon just grinned as they all chuckled.

Checking out of the hotel and driving to the airport was a blur for Jim. It seemed like the closer their departure came that all he could think about was getting home to Cascade. As they said their good-byes to Nick and boarded the plane, Jim thought back over the last few weeks and thanked whatever deity might be listening that Sandburg was back with him. He vowed that if it was within his power, that that's the way things would stay.

 

 

 

The flight was uneventful; a cramped and boring four hours that Sandburg mostly slept through. His initial energy had finally depleted and once the plane took off he'd crashed hard. Jim was more than a little relieved when the announcement came that they were about to land.

Joel waited for them just off the gangway. He'd obviously used his badge to gain entry to the restricted space, but the bear hug welcome he gave Sandburg made Jim glad that he'd done so.

They'd been able to carry on all of their luggage, so they didn't need to wait for the plane to be unloaded. After piling their bags in the trunk of Joel's car, they settled in for the final leg of their journey. Sandburg was yawning widely, trying to keep up with the conversation swirling around him, but failing spectacularly. By the time they arrived at the loft, he'd fallen asleep with his head resting on Jim's shoulder.

"Hey, Chief." Jim eased him into an upright position. "Wake up. We're home."

Sandburg blinked and glanced around. "Cool."

Jim pulled their bags out of the trunk and set them on the sidewalk, keeping one hand on Sandburg's arm to make sure he stayed put.

"Take tomorrow off, but be sure to come in the day after to go over the museum case." Simon grinned at him from the front seat of Joel's car. "That's about all I can give you right now, Jim. Maybe I can see about some time off after you wrap the case up."

Jim nodded. "Thanks Simon." He met his friend's gaze and tried to convey all he felt in his eyes. "For everything. I'm not sure I would've made it without you."

Simon nodded and glanced at Sandburg, swaying with exhaustion. "Take care of him," he said softly.

"Always."

Simon lifted a hand in farewell as Joel pulled the car out into the street. Jim glanced down at Sandburg and smiled slightly.

"You with me, Chief?"

"Yeah." Sandburg blinked sleepily. "Where're we going?"

"We just gotta get upstairs, buddy."

"'kay." He slung his backpack over his shoulder and let Jim steer him into the lobby to wait for the ancient elevator.

By the time they made it through the front door of the loft, Jim figured Sandburg was more asleep than awake. He put the suitcases down out of the way of the door. They both had plenty of clean clothes, so doing the laundry could most definitely wait until they were both rested. He slid Sandburg's backpack off his shoulder and placed it under the coatrack. He was half-way across the room to the stairs when a soft gasp made him turn.

Sandburg stood just inside the door, where he'd stopped when they entered. He was glancing around the loft, staring at it like a starving man stares at a feast. His eyes were wide and filled with unshed tears when his gaze met Jim's.

"Blair?" He slowly made his way back to where Sandburg stood.

"It just hit me."

"What did?"

"This." He gestured at the loft. "It's real. I'm really here."

Jim felt a sudden lump in his throat. "Yeah. You're really here. You're finally home."

He snaked his arm around Sandburg's shoulders and drew him along across the room and up the stairs. He felt a sudden tension in Sandburg's body as they stopped at the foot of Jim's bed.

Sandburg raised his gaze to Jim's and whispered, "Home?"

"Home," Jim said firmly. "With me. Where you belong."


End file.
